The Warlock's Quickening
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: Merlin might have come to Camelot to master his magic, not to end the Purge, but he's not going to sit idly by while his kin suffer. Oh no. Whether it's releasing a chained dragon, smuggling sorcerers out of the city, or trying to change Arthur's mind, he's fighting back. Now. Series rewrite beginning after 1X02 featuring Proactive!Merlin. AU.
1. The Dragon's Gift

Disclaimer: I do not, have never, and will never own BBC's Merlin. Or, I suppose, Arthurian legend, but that's public domain by now. Please consider this disclaimer valid for the entire fic.

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Chapter I: The Dragon's Gift

No one looking at the thin, gangly youth making his way through the halls of Camelot would ever guess at the power flowing through his veins. They would not imagine that he would one day command dragons, defeat armies, control the mirror of life and death. They would never guess that the man before them was a legend in the making, a prophecy come to life. They would never dream that his name would be spoken when their own bones had long since dissolved into dust. He was so small for so great a destiny.

But all legends must start somewhere, and this legend begins here, now, with this half-grown lad sneaking through the castle at the heart of Camelot, which is the womb of Albion. For in a land of myth and a time of magic, the destiny of that great kingdom rests on the shoulders of a young man. His name… _Merlin_.

The young man made his way down the stone stairs, fighting back a sneeze as his feet kicked up dust. The light from his torch made strange patterns in the airborne dirt, tiny eddies of almost unnoticeable wind. Shadows danced along the crude stone walls.

The stairs came to an end. Merlin stopped.

The dragon was huge, enormous, a behemoth of bronze and gold. His wings were folded to his side, but Merlin knew that they were like a bat's, thick leather strong enough to bear the great beast in flight. His tail curled around his forelegs, obscuring but not completely hiding the curving claws. His neck arched forwards as the nobbled head turned to face his guest. Golden eyes seemed to glow in the light of the fire. Even imprisoned, he was absolutely magnificent. Free, he would be incredible beyond belief.

"So you have returned already, young warlock." The dragon—Kilgharrah, he had said his name was—kept his voice level, but the twitches of the tip of his tail belied his apparent calm.

Merlin grinned, nodded. "Of course I'm back. How could I leave you here to rot?" The torch floated in midair, staying close to him but leaving his hands free. The light from the flames reflected off the dragon's scales, which made the dreary cavern brighter than it had any right to be. "Like you said, we're both magic. Kin." The warlock made his way down from his ledge to the very bottom of the cavern.

Kilgharrah was waiting when the human reached the floor. "Here," he said quietly, walking towards the warlock. When he stopped, he presented his chained hind leg to Merlin. The flesh around the binding was raw, the scales rubbed away. It would scar, they both knew that. But perhaps, if the source of the wound were removed now, it would not heal as badly as it might have otherwise.

Merlin raised the sword he'd _borrowed_ from the prince, whispered a spell. Magic flowed through his veins, lighting his eyes with gold.

The sword swung down.

The cuff shattered, steel and sorcery ripping through sorcery and steel. Merlin had used a bit too much force in his strike; the sword's momentum propelled itself into Kilgharrah's wounded flesh, slipping off the scales into the raw skin. The warlock jerked back, an apology rising to his lips. The dragon, after a brief and involuntary hiss, shook his vast head. "No, Merlin. Do not apologize." Slowly, very slowly, he curved his neck around his body, stared intently at the limb. He flexed his clawed foot, rotated it, stretched. The golden eyes did not blink. "I am _free._"

Merlin grinned from ear to ear. "You're free," he agreed.

Suddenly Kilgharrah was spitting fire, the yellow plumes spewing from his mouth onto the ruined chain. Merlin, yelping, scooted back. He fell, but Kilgharrah paid him no heed. Snarling, the dragon released another gush of fire, his claws tearing at the superheated metal, cutting through the white-hot links like warm butter.

He had tried this before, of course. Many times he had turned his strength and flame and magic against the bindings, but it had never worked. Not until today, when a young warlock's spell had set him free.

Merlin goggled at him from his safe ledge of stone, wondering for the first time if releasing an enormous fire-spewing death lizard who had more than enough reason for going on a homicidal rampage throughout the kingdom was a good idea. Sure, Kilgharrah had promised that he wouldn't do anything like that. He'd even said that he would try to keep people from knowing about his freedom, that he certainly didn't want Uther suspecting he'd escaped. Yet now, venting his wrath on the chains which had held him so long, he looked almost like an animal, out of control with rage and madness. For what did Merlin know about the dragon anyways? He'd only been in Camelot for a week (and had in that time saved the prince's life _twice _from magical threats that no one else had had any chance of combatting. Seriously, how was Arthur even still alive?), and though he'd snuck out to talk with Kilgharrah every night, they really didn't know each other well. Kin or not, Kilgharrah had no reason to listen to him, and he had no reason to trust Kilgharrah.

The dragon flung the molten remnants of his chains against the wall of the cave. He was breathing heavily, flanks heaving, eyes wide and wild. Merlin didn't dare move.

Finally, the dragon lowered his head. He looked so old and tired then that Merlin was instantly ashamed of his assumptions.

"Are you…?" The warlock didn't even know what he was trying to ask. Was Kilgharrah all right? Of course not! He'd witnessed the massacre, the genocide of his people, then been chained in a dark and lonely cave for twenty years. Twenty years of grief and darkness, and he'd had to face it utterly alone. Merlin's soft heart bled for him.

"I gave you my word, Merlin, not to seek revenge," Kilgharrah reminded him. His voice was thinner than the warlock had ever heard it. He sounded tired. "If Uther Pendragon comes across me, I will kill him without remorse or hesitation. If I meet anyone with the blood of our kin on his hands, I will kill him as well. But I'll not seek them out."

"I'm sorry." And wasn't that just the most inadequate thing ever? But the grief in the dragon's voice, the utter misery…. Even the joy of his freedom was tainted by the memory of how he'd been imprisoned in the first place. Merlin pushed himself up, made his cautious way toward the great dragon.

Kilgharrah replied with the draconic equivalent of a raised eyebrow. He watched, depthless and golden and unblinking, as Merlin once again approached his still-raw leg. The warlock knelt down. His hand hovered above the injury. "Wish I knew healing spells," he sighed.

"One day, you will, young warlock," Kilgharrah promised. He turned both neck and body, lowering his head. They were close enough now that Merlin could feel the heat of the dragon's inner fire.

Kilgharrah pressed his snout against Merlin's shoulder. The boy gaped. The dragon's lips curled into a smile as slowly, hesitantly, Merlin raised his hand. Blue eyes met golden, silently asking if he was sure, and the elder hummed in the back of his throat. Swallowing hard, Merlin gently rested his hand on the dragon's muzzle.

Warmth filled his chest. This was, he realized, probably the first time Kilgharrah had touched someone in twenty years.

No touch, no warmth, no love for _twenty years…._ Merlin barely suppressed a shudder. He hadn't even been alive that long. He tried to imagine spending the entirety of his life here, in this dank, cold cave with no company, no night or day, no way of telling time except for his weekly feedings, knowing that all his kin—everyone he'd ever loved, Mum and Will and _everybody_ in the village—had been murdered by the same despot who had imprisoned him. His usually rich imagination failed him. All he knew was that it was awful beyond belief. Instinctively, the young warlock moved a bit closer to the dragon, lifting his other hand until it, too, rested on Kilgharrah's pebbly scales. One hand stayed on the dragon's snout while the other gently ghosted over a part of his neck. The neck scales were bigger, a bit rougher, but still surprisingly smooth under his fingers.

A large part of him wondered if he was going too far, being too familiar, but Kilgharrah did not pull away. He didn't lean in, either, but Merlin thought that must be because of his dignity rather than a lack of enjoyment at his first physical contact in two decades. How awful, how completely and utterly _awful_ to be so alone for so long….

No, Merlin did not regret freeing the dragon. He couldn't bring back the dead dragons or their lords, couldn't stop the red spiral of violence and hate and death, but this? This, at least, he could do.

"Walk with me, Merlin." Kilgharrah's voice rumbled in his ear. "I have no wish to remain in this cave any longer."

Merlin was a tall youth, but he still had to jog to keep up with the dragon's slow tread. They made their journey in silence, the torch floating above their heads, making the dragon's scales glitter like polished amber.

The air changed. Back where they had left the destroyed remnants of the chains, it was stale and still and tainted with a distinctly reptilian scent, though that smell had been overpowered by the stench of white-hot metal and of flame. Now the air danced about them as a faint breeze blew through the cavern. Even Merlin, with his weak human nose, could smell the mulch and pine needles of the forest that surrounded Camelot. An owl hooted somewhere, soft and low, and a short-lived gust rattled the pine branches.

Kilgharrah was walking more quickly now, neck stretched out before him. Merlin sped up until he was running full speed ahead.

They turned the final corner. Kilgharrah moved with such haste that his tail nearly knocked Merlin down. The warlock, realizing that he had been forgotten, stopped. No need to get in the dragon's way.

The world lay before them, dark green trees and a crescent moon in the star-studded sky. Kilgharrah was running now, the ground shaking under his claws, and when he reached the end of the cave his wings snapped open. His leg muscles bunched as he dropped into a running crouch. Then he was flying, wings pumping wildly, tail streaming out behind him like a banner, blotting out the stars. He skimmed the top of the tree line, then angled himself up, up, up, until Merlin could barely make out his silhouette.

Then Merlin couldn't see him at all.

He stared into the night sky for a long time, smiling quietly, wishing Kilgharrah fortune and whatever happiness he could get after being trapped and alone so long. It was, he thought, a fine night to be free: the air cool and fresh and stirring with only faint breezes; the skies clear of clouds; the stars bright and brilliant.

The warlock inclined his head. Yes, this was a good night indeed. He turned, began to make his way back into the cave.

"_Merlin!_"

The warlock paused, frowned. He wished he knew how to reply with mind-speech, but he hadn't asked Kilgharrah how. Unable to answer, he turned back around, faced the forests once again.

A dark shape dove from the heavens. Kilgharrah landed surprisingly quietly for such a huge creature, wings folding against his skin. Moonlight pooled in his golden eyes as he solemnly proclaimed, "I am in your debt, Merlin Ambrosius."

_Ambrosius._

He had never heard the name before, never been called anything but Merlin, or (and only his mother was allowed to get away with this) 'my little falcon' and 'my baby bird.' Yet the name felt so familiar, clicking into place without hesitation. Gooseflesh prickled across his skin. The hairs on his neck stood on end. The name seemed to reverberate through his blood, settling into his bones and marrow. His heart thudded painfully in his ears, and though he could not see it, he knew that his eyes now shone with their native gold.

"Why did you call me that?" If the words came out breathier than he'd intended, it was only because he knew that something of great importance had happened. He just didn't know what, and that was a bit of a problem.

"Because," the dragon replied with some asperity, "that is your name."

Merlin was fairly certain that his name was Merlin. Perhaps (and his breathing quickened again) Ambrosius was a surname? All he knew about his father was that the man was a sorcerer who'd had to leave Hunith to keep her safe. His mother refused to say anything more about the man; she didn't want her reckless boy to go off on some months-long quest to find a sorcerer who might or might not be dead, who might be hiding anywhere in Europe, who had evaded the mad king's search parties and who would be endangered if anyone could find him. They would all be in danger, she had warned, for if Merlin found his father and Uther's men found Merlin with his father, or even if they found him searching for his father, Merlin would die. And so, to keep her lover (who would die as well if Merlin led the killers of Camelot to him) and her son safe, she kept them separate, breaking her own heart in the process.

For one wild moment Merlin let himself fantasize that the dragon knew his father, that he could bring together parent and child and make everything right. For a moment, he let himself imagine a family in Ealdor, a son and two parents and maybe even a younger sibling. Preferably a sister—he didn't think his poor mum could handle another son.

Then the same instinct which told him that Ambrosius was indeed his name whispered that Ambrosius was _his _name, not one that belonged to anyone else. It was his his his, not his unknown father's, and it had to have something to do with the destiny Kilgharrah had mentioned.

"Since when? I'm pretty sure my mum named me Merlin."

"It has been your name since the dawn of time," Kilgharrah proclaimed. "Merlin may be your name, but it is only the first of many. Ambrosius is who you _are._"

Merlin might have known Kilgharrah for only a week, but he already knew the dragon well enough to recognize that he wouldn't get any more information from him. So he settled for an "oh, I see" that he hoped sounded wise and sorcerer-ly.

It didn't.

Kilgharrah's eyes danced with amusement as he returned to his former line of conversation. "As I said, young warlock, I am in your debt. Even if I were not, our destinies are still bound together. Therefore I will give you a gift." He crouched down. "Take the scale above my heart. Keep it close to you at all times. When you have need of me, call thrice my name and I will come."

Merlin didn't move. "What?"

Kilgharrah stepped closer. "You will have need of my council, which means you will need a way to contact me. The scale will give you that ability."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Merlin. You freed me mere days after your arrival of Camelot, asking nothing in return but that I refrain from destroying the kingdom. Take the scale."

The warlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak past the lump in his throat. He made his way forward until he was standing by the dragon's chest. Merlin stopped, glanced up at Kilgharrah. The dragon understood. He lifted a clawed hand, pointed to a bronze scale about the size of a woman's fist. Merlin took ahold of it, nails digging into the dragon's armored flesh. He gave it a little tug, but was not surprised when the scale didn't give. Merlin pulled harder, yanking his arm back as quickly as he could. This time, the scale slid off, leaving a tiny chink in the dragon's built-in armor.

"Farewell, young warlock."

Kilgharrah backed away. His wings opened wide. With a powerful leap, he launched himself into the air.

And then he was gone.

Merlin stayed there for a long time, staring off into the night sky, absently rubbing Kilgharrah's scale. Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Two weeks ago, he'd been a frightened farm boy who hadn't left Ealdor for years. Now he was the personal servant and protector to a future king, a warlock with a spell book and a dragon's scale and a _destiny._

At least, he thought he had a destiny. It was entirely possible that Kilgharrah had a few screws loose from his twenty years of post-genocide solitary confinement and that this whole 'two sides of the same coin' thing was nothing more than the desperate delusions of a diseased mind. But the dragon had seemed quite sane when he released him….

With a start, Merlin realized that he had made his way back to Gaius's chambers. For a moment he wondered if he'd somehow managed to accidentally transport himself back, but a quick inventory of his recent memories revealed that he'd made his way here by the more mundane method of walking. He'd just been too deep in thought to notice it.

Gaius was waiting up for him. The physician was waiting with his arms folded, eyebrow raised in a way that Merlin already knew meant trouble. The younger man grinned sheepishly. "Hullo, Gaius."

"Hello, Merlin. Your chats with the dragon don't usually last this long."

Merlin was not at all surprised to learn that Gaius knew what he did at night. "That's because we weren't just talking."

Gaius paled. "What did you do?"

"I set him free." He could have lied. He could have made up something, said that they were practicing magic together, that the dragon had demonstrated his fires. But there was something he wanted to ask Gaius, something important. So, before his guardian could do more than gasp in horror, he queried, "Why didn't you?"

Gaius stared at him as though he were mad. "Merlin," he said, "the dragon is the last of his kind. His kin died at Uther's hand. He will seek revenge, not just on Uther but on all Camelot! Are you out of your mind?"

"He promised not to," the warlock said defensively.

Gaius's eyebrows nearly flew off his head. "He promised not to," he repeated, voice saturated with incredulity.

Merlin flushed. When his guardian said it in that tone, it sounded a great deal less convincing. Still, the warlock continued, "It was a condition of me freeing him, the only condition I asked. Kilgharrah agreed. He said he didn't want anybody to know he was free, so he's not going to rampage or slaughter or anything like that."

"Merlin," Gaius pointed out, "you have known the dragon for approximately one week."

The younger man flinched, feeling very small. "I couldn't just leave him there."

"I fear for Camelot," the physician murmured.

"He's been free for a while already and hasn't knocked down the castle or set things on fire or anything," Merlin protested weakly. "I told you, he doesn't want anyone to know he's free. If someone did, Uther would send a hunting party to kill him for the crime of existing and then there wouldn't be any more dragons. Kilgharrah doesn't want to be the last of his breed."

Gaius remained silent for a time. Finally he nodded, sighed, "Perhaps you are right and this will not result in death. But Merlin," he leaned forward, voice earnest, "you _must_ be more careful!"

Merlin stared. "I was hundreds of feet under the castle. The only person around was a _dragon,_ and he's hardly going to go to Uther and accuse me of sorcery."

"For once, Merlin, I am not referring to your reckless use of magic. I am suggesting that perhaps you didn't think this through."

"What, was I supposed to leave him there to rot?" the youth demanded.

"You took a terrible risk! Even if the dragon does not voluntarily reveal himself, what if he lets someone see him by accident? What will happen when the guards notice that his cave is empty? Even if the guards don't see anything wrong, someone will investigate when the dragon's food doesn't get eaten! What then, Merlin? You've only been in Camelot a few days. You'll be the obvious suspect."

Merlin blanched. He hadn't thought about Kilgharrah's meals. He… probably should have. Oops.

"Even if no one suspects you," Gaius continued, "Uther will still know that there is a sorcerer on the loose. You haven't seen one of his witch-hunts yet, Merlin, and I pray you never do—but if you keep taking so many risks then you _will,_ and I might not be able to protect you." He swallowed hard. "I promised to keep you safe, Merlin. Promise me that you won't make an old man's job more difficult than it needs to be."

Merlin looked up at his guardian. Genuine fear was written plain as day across Gaius's face, fear and desperation and a hint of anger. Guilt flooded the young warlock. "I'm sorry."

"Promise me, Merlin," Gaius begged.

"…I'm sorry."

"Why not?" his guardian demanded, not understanding.

Merlin struggled to explain. "I don't…. I could have left Kilgharrah there. I could have let Mary Collins or Sir Valiant kill Arthur. It would certainly have been easier for me. But… I don't think it would have been _better_." He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Gaius, but I can't promise to keep myself safe when a bit of risk can save someone's life or set him free. I just…. All I can promise is that I'll do my best to not get caught."

Gaius slumped. "I don't want to see you on the headman's block. I haven't known you long, Merlin, but you're already dear to me."

Merlin laid a hand on his guardian's shoulder. "And you to me."

The old man smiled, the expression thin and wan. "You should get some sleep, Merlin. You have a busy day tomorrow."

Merlin smiled back. "I will if you do, Gaius. You didn't have to wait up for me, you know."

The physician embraced his ward, held him tight for a moment before releasing him. "Then goodnight, Merlin."

"Goodnight, Gaius."

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This was born of rampant plot bunnies, which I tamed with a poll on my profile. I've kept the poll up for a few days so people can see the other choices. If anybody wants to adopt one or more of the other ideas, go ahead. I'd love to read them.

Poll results: 43 voters were allowed to make 2 choices each. The following prompt received 28 votes, or 35% of the total: "Diverges after 1X02. Multiple POVs, mostly Merlin's. In which Merlin is proactive, frees Kilgharrah without anybody noticing, smuggles assorted condemned sorcerers out of the citadel, (re)founds a city, and semi-accidentally builds himself an army. Would continue throughout the series, growing progressively more AU. Pretty much the ultimate fix-it wherein we actually GET the Albion everyone kept promising. Friendship and adventure, some Arwen and Mergana."

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein Merlin Proves Himself a Dragon-Loving Softy and Gaius Starts to Realize What He's Gotten Himself Into_"

Next update: June 19. A dream, an afanc, and a more appropriate response to an epidemic than was demonstrated on the show.


	2. Pestilence

Chapter II: Pestilence

"A fork in the road? How cliché."

Morgana started. She'd thought that she was alone, that the only people nearby were Arthur and the strangely familiar blond woman, but apparently not.

The man was tall and slender, clad in a navy cloak over gray trousers and a forest green tunic. Pale, long-fingered hands loosely grasped a jewel-topped staff. But the hands were the only part of his skin that Morgana could see. The hood of his cloak was pulled over his head, casting his face into unnatural shadow despite the cloud-filtered daylight around them. Since the man was standing right next to her, Morgana should have been able to see his face despite the cloak's hood, but all she could make out was a pair of yellow eyes that glowed like flame in the dim light.

"Wouldn't you agree, my lady?" the man asked. His unusual eyes glittered with mischief.

Oddly, Morgana was not at all disturbed by the stranger's presence or the obviously magical concealment of his features. She replied easily, as though she'd known and trusted him all her life. "That a fork in the road is cliché?"

"Mm-hmm." The man gestured at the fork in the road ahead of them, where the path Morgana was following (or perhaps not following. She had just been standing around, not walking or riding or moving at all, until the man's sudden and inexplicable appearance) split in two. The right fork led to Arthur, crown gleaming on his head, scarlet cape billowing out behind him. The left lane led to a woman in a red dress. Morgana was too far from her to make out many details, but she could see that the blond was pretty and fairly young, only a few years older than herself. She and Arthur were glaring at one another with unmistakable loathing.

"I don't think it's cliché at all," Morgana told the stranger. "One road can't lead to two places. It's a simple fact of civil engineering."

He chuckled. "That's not exactly what I meant."

"Oh? Then what did you mean?"

"Don't worry about it yet. We've got a long while before you reach that point."

Morgana arched a brow. "It's not that far," she pointed out.

"It's farther than it looks," the man replied. "Besides, there are quite a few… difficulties… between here and there."

Morgana looked. The stranger was right: the road before them was riddled with pitfalls and ruts and puddles and thorns. Dangerous beasts lurked just off the poorly paved surface, their eyes glinting in the light. Morgana desperately wished that she had her sword.

"Ah," said the man, staring at the puddle right in front of them. The ugly pool was practically mud, earth and water mingling to create something slimy and foul. They stood so close to the scummy puddle that it was practically lapping at their toes. "Here's the first of them."

And then the water was boiling up, bubbling, shooting like a geyser into the air, and she glimpsed teeth and slime and foulness in its depths, and snapping jaws lunged at her—

Morgana le Fay woke with a scream.

* * *

"Are you absolutely certain it's magic that's causing this plague?" Merlin asked.

"I believe so," Gaius sighed. "I have never seen anything like it before." A rueful smile. "Of course, even if it were not sorcery, I still would not know what caused it. No one knows what causes most diseases, only how to cure them."

"So what causes the ones we do know about?"

"Many things." Gaius smiled at him. "Perhaps I'll make a physician of you yet."

Despite his worry about the plague, Merlin grinned back. "I think I'd like that, Gaius. Let's start with him." And with that, the boy trotted over to a groaning man on the side of the road. Traffic eddied around him, trying to avoid anyone with the telltale white skin and blue-black veins that marked a victim of the plague.

Gaius stopped beaming. "No, Merlin."

"No?"

"It breaks my heart to say so, but… we need to find the cure. I cannot do that if we take everyone in."

Merlin didn't understand. "But you're the physician."

"And that is why I must find the cure. I need to save all the people, and I cannot do that if I take on every patient."

Merlin thought about it for a moment before concluding that, while Gaius had a point about prioritizing, that was still no reason for the _court physician_ to _abandon a diseased man to die in the streets_. "Then I'll take care of them."

"I'll need your help to find the cure."

"Really? Because I've only been learning medicine for a month. I know enough to maybe look after the ones who are sick, make them as comfortable as possible, but I don't know a thing about curing a plague that you've never even heard of."

"Merlin—"

"You can't just leave him to die on the streets!" And with that, the young warlock knelt down to the sick man, who had been watching their interactions with a combination of hope and fear. As Merlin helped him to his feet, he choked out his thanks, his gratitude. The younger man smiled. "Don't mention it. I'll get you to the infirmary."

"If the plague keeps spreading at this rate, it will not be long before the victims can no longer fit," Gaius pointed out.

"I'll think of something," Merlin muttered sulkily.

Gaius fixed him with the eyebrow.

"I will!"

Gaius clearly did not approve, but he said nothing as he walked away, outpacing Merlin and his burden in short order. As he half-supported, half-dragged the ill man (whose name was Johnny, he said) along, Merlin thought about what he was going to do. Gaius seemed… not quite content, but certainly willing to let people die around him while he searched for the cure. A part of Merlin understood that: if Gaius was distracted, he wouldn't have time to research and no one would ever get better. On the other hand, he'd been willing to leave a man to die slowly and painfully on the streets of Camelot, abandoned by his friends and family for fear that they would fall ill themselves. That was just….

They reached the infirmary just as Merlin concocted a plan. A good plan, he thought, helping Johnny into a spare cot. The man collapsed, sweat beading on his brow.

"Something for the pain?" he asked, eyeing one of the few medicines whose purpose he already knew.

Johnny nodded.

"Right." Merlin fetched a painkiller, poured it into the other man's mouth. "It has the side effect of making you drowsy, but that's a good thing. You'll need to rest, keep your strength up until we can make you better."

"Thank you."

Merlin smiled, feeling a warm glow inside. "I have to go now. Try to sleep, okay?"

Johnny's eyes were already more than half closed. He nodded vaguely.

Gaius gestured for his ward. "Start—"

"I have to talk to Arthur." Merlin didn't give his guardian the opportunity to respond. He darted from the sickroom into the halls.

Arthur was in the archives, talking with Geoffrey of Monmouth about whether he'd read of any plagues like this. Judging from their expressions, he hadn't.

"Arthur, I have an idea about the plague."

The prince sighed. "Just because you got lucky about Valiant—"

"No, I don't have any idea what's causing it or how to cure it."

"Then what are you here for?"

"Gaius is researching a cure," the manservant explained, "and that means he doesn't have time to take care of the people. Is it possible to set up some kind of emergency hospital where the sick can gather? Even if that doesn't stop it from spreading, they'll be nearby when Gaius finds a cure."

Arthur blinked. "And he can test potential cures on them. That's actually not a bad idea."

Merlin smirked before his face became serious again. "So can you do it?"

"No."

Merlin's face crumpled.

"I don't have the authority," Arthur explained. "You'll have to talk with my father about that."

Merlin's stomach dropped right through his feet. "Talk to the king?" he repeated faintly. And not just any king, but Uther Pendragon himself. Uther, who had instigated the Great Purge. Uther, who had made Merlin grow up in fear, who had haunted his childhood nightmares, who was already far too aware of the warlock's existence. Merlin would rather _not_ attract more of Uther's attention, thank you very much.

"Don't look like that, Merlin. He doesn't bite."

"Yes. I know. I just thought that since he's the king and your father and since I'm just a scrawny peasant, as you so frequently remind me, you would have wanted to do it yourself. I doubt I'd even get into the throne room."

"Another good point."

"No need to sound so surprised about it, sire."

Arthur's lips twitched. "Actually, Merlin, there's every need to sound so surprised about it. That's two good points in a row. Geoffrey, you need to take note of this historic occasion."

"Of course, sire." The old man stifled a grin.

"Come along then, Merlin." Arthur strode out into the halls.

Uther was going over some form of paperwork when his son and his servant arrived. Merlin thought that the king looked a bit grateful for the interruption. "Yes, Arthur?"

"Father, do you recall the abandoned garrisons in the eastern wing?"

"What about them?"

"No one is using them. Merlin here thinks that the garrisons could be temporarily commandeered as an emergency hospice for plague victims. He has volunteered to care for the sick himself."

Uther considered. "If I were to permit such a thing, the patients would be quarantined. I'll not have them risk my household."

Merlin jerked his head in a nod.

"It would also keep the diseased out of the town," Arthur pointed out. "Perhaps that could stop the plague from spreading."

"It would," Uther agreed, "but tell me. Why not use Gaius's chambers for this?"

He was talking to Merlin. He was asking Merlin a question. The magic-hating king was _looking _at him and _asking him a question._ Merlin told his heart to stop fluttering like a bird's, told himself that he needed to stop flinching whenever Uther turned his gaze on him. He'd gotten better this past month, had stopped fearing whenever the king looked at his son (and consequently on his son's manservant). This, though? This was direct attention from a man he'd been terrified of since he knew what terror was.

But the king had asked him a question, and he had to answer. Merlin swallowed, explained, "Gaius is researching a cure in his chambers. He needs to be able to focus."

Uther accepted that. "Very well. You, boy, start gathering medical supplies. Arthur, send some servants to prepare the old garrisons, then spread word that I'll address the people in one hour's time." He lowered his gaze, dismissing the younger men.

Arthur bowed. Merlin hastily followed suit.

"One last thing," Uther added. "When you have completed these tasks, Arthur, resume your efforts to find and kill the sorcerer responsible."

Merlin managed not to blanch. He bowed again before scurrying out of the room.

Gaius was doing… something… with a flask of… Merlin didn't even know what. The physician didn't look up as he asked, "Come to your senses yet?"

"I'm to look after the sick while you search for a cure."

Gaius nearly dropped his flask. "What?"

Merlin shrugged. "King's orders, Gaius."

"That is not what I meant," the physician snapped. "How exactly do you intend to _look after_ the sick?"

"Give them a place to sleep, water to drink, stuff like that."

Gaius did not seem convinced. "I see."

Merlin grit his teeth. "I don't know _how_ to cure them, Gaius. But if I did, would it really be so bad to save dozens of lives?" Before his mentor could answer, he changed the subject. "How is your search for the cure going?"

Gaius gave his ward a long, steady look before replying, "I'm looking at the contents of a dead man's stomach. Whatever is causing this plague has to be ingested. The spell has contaminated the food or water, perhaps both."

Merlin's eyes went wide. "Oh. _Oh._ That is _really_ bad."

"Since the disease has only affected people in the lower town, I believe that it's something in the food supply. Nobles don't eat what peasants do."

"That makes sense." Merlin grabbed an armful of rags. "Maybe grains? The nobles get the best flour."

"That is what I thought. I'll need to acquire samples."

"Right." Merlin hastened out the door.

It took him longer than he liked to find the east garrisons. He hadn't been in the castle very long, and it was so big and filled with far too many passages and rooms. Not to mention that the east garrisons were in the least-used part of the castle. Fortunately, quite a few other servants were heading that way. He followed one of the maids into a dust-filled barrack. Other maids were busy fighting against the dust, wiping it off bed frames and sweeping it out the door while others unrolled moth-eaten pallets. Merlin looked around rather helplessly. Other than the bed frames, there wasn't any furniture in the room, nowhere to leave his rags. He eventually settled for leaving them on one of the beds before returning to Gaius's chambers for another load.

The physician wasn't there. Merlin assumed that he was off acquiring a grain sample or something. He considered going for painkillers, but one look at Gaius's shelves was enough to make him back away. Though he recognized the concoction he'd given Johnny, he still didn't know what three-quarters of those vials contained and had no desire to accidentally poison anybody. With that in mind, he grabbed another armful of rags and returned to the barrack.

The castle maids were apparently the most efficient women in the world. Somehow, they had already cleared the sickroom of dust and were now focused on preparing the beds. Still no tables or anything, though. Merlin asked an older woman if she could get some more furniture before leaving once again.

This time, he didn't return right away to Gaius's chambers. Instead, he made his way to the kitchens, where he commandeered one of the carts which waiters used to haul out roast boar and other enormous dishes. He could load painkillers and other medicines onto the cart and cushion them with more rags. He couldn't get the cart all the way to the eastern garrison—too many stairs between Gaius's territory and the abandoned barrack—but this was still much more efficient.

Gaius still hadn't returned. Merlin chewed his lip. He couldn't load his cart with unknown medicines, Johnny was doing as well as could be expected, and he really didn't want to waste time….

"He's going to kill me," the young man muttered, then ran into his own room.

His spell book was lying carelessly on the floor. He'd have to do something about that, find a place to hide it. But for now, he had to find something _in_ it.

Flip through the pages. Stop. Was this—no, just another false lead. Sigh in frustration, try again. Stop. Here it is!

Merlin ran his finger over the instructions for the spell. A poultice, he'd have to make a poultice. Was it reusable? The book didn't say. Best get supplies for several of them, then. Good thing that shouldn't be too hard—Gaius was very good about keeping his herb supplies stocked.

The physician in question still wasn't back, but this time, Merlin was glad. He really didn't want to get caught. He just _knew_ that if Gaius found out what he was planning, the man would somehow manage to guilt him into _not_ saving lives. How that worked, Merlin wasn't quite certain. He just knew that it would.

The warlock loaded up the herbs, some more linens, and a few bottles of the same substance he'd given Johnny, which he wrapped in the cloths so they wouldn't break.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in much the same fashion, conveying vials and herbs and rags back and forth. His impromptu sickroom filled up with patients in various stages of the illness, groaning and moaning and, yes, dying on his watch.

When the first patient died, Merlin nearly broke down. It took Gwen's calloused hand on his back, her soft soothing words, to hold him together. The maidservant was a godsend, distributing medicines, wiping sweat from brows, directing her fellow servants in their duties. Now she patted Merlin's back and held him as he shook.

Finally, the embarrassed warlock backed away. He knew he looked a mess: cheeks flushed, nose running, eyes reddened, hair sticking up in all directions. "'Scuse me," he mumbled, "I just need to…."

"Of course." Gwen gave him one last pat. "I'll take care of—" She swallowed. "I'll do what I can for her."

"Thanks," Merlin whispered. "You're an angel, Gwen."

The girl shook her head, dark curls bouncing, and went to tend to the dead. Merlin looked after her for a minute, then squared his shoulders and went to look after the living.

He'd stashed the herbs needed for the poultice in his shirt. He didn't have many on him—the rest were still in the sickroom—just enough for a single spell. Hopefully it was reusable, though with the way his luck had been going…. Merlin grimaced. He'd find out soon.

It did not take long to create the poultice. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a problem. The stupid thing _glowed._

"Of course it does," the warlock grumbled, glaring at the cure as though it had caused the disease. "Of _course_ it glows."

So he'd need some kind of excuse to send everybody off. Maybe… maybe send them to spread the word about the food supply being contaminated? No. Gaius wasn't certain what exactly carried the contagion. Perhaps…? Yes, that would work. He felt like an awful human being for even thinking of it, but if it got his audience away before more people died, it would be worth it. Besides, he thought with a chill, it was a perfectly legitimate concern.

Stuffing the poultice and its telltale glow into his bag, Merlin returned to the sickroom. Once there, he made a beeline for Gwen, the only other healthy individual in the room. Part of him wondered what had happened to the other maids, but he didn't particularly care where they were as long as they weren't here. "You have family here, right?"

"Yes," she replied. "My dad and I live in the lower town."

"Have you checked on him?"

Brown eyes went wide. "No." Gwen started automatically for the door, but froze in mid-step. "I shouldn't leave. I know I shouldn't, but—"

"Go," Merlin told her. "If it were my mum, I'd already be out the door."

The maid hesitated, glancing at the plague's other victims. Most were sleeping, and the ones who weren't were falling asleep. "Can you handle everything?"

"There's not much to handle," Merlin sighed. "Besides, the others will probably be back soon."

"Right." Gwen nodded once, then jogged from the room. "I'll be back in a few minutes, Merlin."

As long as no one else came in, that would be enough time. Just to buy himself a few extra seconds, Merlin shut the door behind Gwen. If the rusty lock had still been functional, he'd have bolted the door shut.

Heart hammering, Merlin approached Johnny's bed. The man hadn't woken up since he'd been taken from Gaius's chambers. His breathing was shallow and irregular, rattling in his throat. He didn't have long. Swallowing hard, Merlin placed the poultice on the other man's head. Clearly and carefully, he intoned, "_Þu fornimest adl fram guman_!"

The poultice's glow brightened. Little flecks of golden light misted off of it, made their way into Johnny's skin. The man gave a low groan. The paleness didn't fade from his skin, but the black veins seemed a bit less prominent, and he was definitely breathing easier. The awful death-rattle was gone.

The book had recommended that the poultice remain in contact with the patient for at least a minute after the healing spell was invoked. Merlin counted to sixty, then, fearing he'd counted too fast, went on to a hundred. Shaking hands removed the remedy from Johnny's brow, moved onto the next patient.

It turned out that the poultice _did_ have more than one shot. The next patient, a somewhat portly middle-aged woman, inhaled the same golden mist. She, too, breathed more easily.

Merlin managed to cure four more people before someone pushed the door open. The poultice, its work fortunately complete, shot up to the ceiling. Merlin spun around, nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Am I interrupting something?" Gaius queried.

Merlin sighed with relief. The tension drained from his shoulders. "Oh. Hello, Gaius. I thought you might be Gwen."

"And why, pray tell, did you react so strongly to Gwen's return?"

Merlin managed not to glance up at his poultice, which was crushed almost flat against the ceiling, but it was a close call. His eye twitched a little as he replied, "She's checking on her father. I thought she might have come back."

"I see." Gaius plainly wasn't buying it. "There has been another fatality."

Merlin's heart leapt in his chest. "What?"

"A noblewoman."

"But you said it would only affect peasants!"

"I thought it would only affect peasants," Gaius corrected. "And if it had been caused by some contamination of the food supply, it would have. I need you to come with me to take a water sample."

"But…."

"Unless you're doing something you should not?"

Yes, that was definite disapproval. Oddly, instead of cowing him, that disapproval made Merlin straighten his spine and lower his poultice. "Can you take Gwen with you instead?" He guided the poultice to another patient's brow. "_Þu fornimest adl fram guman_!"

"Merlin!" Gaius cried. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"No, I'm trying to keep people alive. If you want to do the same, take Gwen with you to get the water sample and find some way of keeping the other maids out."

Ordinarily, Gaius would have argued. He would have made noises about the risk, about caution and sense and _keep the magic hidden._ But that day, Merlin was as fierce as his falcon namesake. The physician grimaced but accepted defeat. "Very well. But be careful."

"I will." Merlin moved the poultice to another patient, spoke his spell once again. Nothing happened.

The patient didn't move.

Ignoring the chill in his chest, Merlin repeated the spell, spoke it loudly and clearly. Nothing. Probably, he told himself, the poultice probably just ran out of magic. Never mind that it glowed as brightly as before.

Gaius glided over, inspected the patient. The physician sighed, shook his head. "She's dead, Merlin."

The warlock crumpled.

That was how Gwen found them, staring down at the corpse and speaking not a word. "What happened?" she asked.

"She's dead," Merlin explained, turning to face his friend. He didn't step forward, partly because he didn't want to leave the corpse and partly because that might result in Gwen seeing the poultice.

"I believe that there is a contamination in the water supply," Gaius said softly, directing Gwen's attention away from the patient and the poultice on her chest. Merlin's eyes flashed gold. The poultice zoomed under the dead woman's cot. "Would you come with me to get a water sample, Gwen?"

"Merlin, will you be all right if Gaius and I go do that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He smiled sadly. "I just wish it could have been different." If he'd been faster….

"So do I," whispered Gwen, and Merlin saw that her brown eyes were swimming with tears.

Gaius and Gwen left. Merlin returned to his work. He needed to make three more poultices before the job was done, but in the end, he'd managed to work his magic on everybody but two patients. Those two patients were dead. Merlin made arrangements for the corpses to be transported out, at which point he learned that Uther had forbidden the sick peoples' families access to the quarantined zone. To prevent contagion (apparently he hadn't heard that the disease spread through food or water), only Gaius, Merlin, and five maids-turned-nurses were allowed into the eastern garrisons. Gwen and Gaius were off collecting water. The other four nurses were still trying to comfort the hysterical mother of the first deceased, who refused to let any of the girls out of her sight. Her sobs echoed throughout the corridors, and none of the maids could bear to leave her. They really were sorry for not helping Merlin out more, one said as the warlock passed, but the poor mother was just so miserable and everyone was sleeping and this seemed like a more productive use of their time. Merlin assured her that he understood.

All he wanted to do was grab his sleeping clothes and maybe a bite to eat (he knew he should be hungry despite his lack of appetite), but that was not to be. Gwen and Gaius were pouring over one of the physician's books. They looked up as Merlin entered his guardian's chambers, relaxing when they saw it was him.

"There's a _thing _in the water," Gwen blurted.

"An afanc," Gaius said. "It's poisoning the water supply. To save Camelot, we must find a way to defeat it."

"You think your books have something like that?"

"I certainly hope so."

And how long would it take Gaius to find a way? Too long. Not to mention there was no guarantee of success. But Merlin could think of someone who ought to know a thing or two about afancs. After all, he'd been around for a thousand years and more.

* * *

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein Camelot Acquires a Temporary Center for Disease Control_"

Some notes: This scene was born from my frustration at Gaius's handling of the disease in 1X03. I get that he had to find the cure. I really do. I also get that he was the person best equipped to do so. But leaving people like Johnny in the street (which actually happened. There's a scene where Gaius drags Merlin away from a dying plague victim who was just sitting in the street, moaning and in pain) was still unacceptable. If nothing else, he didn't know how the disease was spread, and leaving the sick guy in a public place could have resulted in anyone passing by could have gotten infected. Also, moving the sick to a centralized location meant that he'd know where to find them once he found the cure. There's about a million different things he did wrong in that episode, and I'm trying to fix it so fewer people die.

Also, Gwen's dad is not ill because I'm messing with the timeline. I can do that in AUs, dontcha know.

Next update: July 3. Cryptic Kilgharrah (as though there's any other version!), an afanc fight, and an explanation for Nimueh's baffling behavior in episodes 3 and 4.


	3. Nimueh

Chapter III: Nimueh

Merlin cut to the chase almost before Kilgharrah had folded his wings. "Do you know how to defeat an afanc?"

One of the scaly ridges above Kilgharrah's eyes lifted, the draconic equivalent of a raised eyebrow. "An afanc?"

"There's one poisoning the water supply. People are dying, Kilgharrah."

"An afanc," the dragon repeated, this time to himself. "Those are creatures of the darkest, most powerful magic. It takes a mage to create one. Whoever sent the afanc is a dangerous enemy."

Merlin groaned. Lovely. The monster (which, according to Gwen, had teeth like swords and claws to match, not to mention poisonous skin and who knew what else) had been sent by something—someone—worse. "Do you think that whoever sent the afanc will show up to defend it?" Because that was just what he needed.

"It is possible, young warlock. However, the fact that she sent an afanc rather than coming herself suggests that she is elsewhere."

"She?" Merlin exclaimed. "You know who did it?"

"No. I have my suspicions, but I know not who did this thing." He leaned back on his haunches, stared up at the cloudy sky. "Do not worry about her now. It is the afanc you must defeat."

"But how?" Merlin wailed. "It's a creature of magic. How can I get rid of it?"

Kilgharrah lowered his great head. "You do not need to face it alone, young warlock. You are but one side of a coin. You will need your other half to defeat this adversary."

"You mean Arthur? Because I'm still not a hundred percent certain he's best-king-ever material."

"Certain or not, young warlock, he is the other side of your coin."

"The duller half, definitely."

Kilgharrah's lips twitched. "If you insist."

Merlin returned to the topic at hand. "So I get Arthur. What are we supposed to do then?"

"The afanc," Kilgharrah proclaimed, "is a creature of two elements. Use its opposites against it."

"But what does that—hey! You can't just fly off like that! Get back here and tell me—"

But Kilgharrah was already gone.

Merlin stared after the rapidly shrinking speck in the sky with an open mouth. He considered calling again with the scale, but he knew the dragon wouldn't respond. Grumbling under his breath about overly cryptic reptiles, Merlin made his way back to the city.

Camelot was frighteningly easy to sneak out of, into, and through. Even now, with twice as many guards patrolling the streets and the populace spooked, he barely needed his magic to break into the castle itself. Merlin wasn't certain if he was grateful for the guards' incompetence or not. On the one hand, he had a feeling he'd be doing a lot of sneaking. On the other, it was rather discouraging to think that the city depended on those red-garbed (seriously, what was up with the red? Did they _want_ to be seen from half a league away?) morons to keep them safe.

He returned to Gaius's chambers and his own little room, not the sick ward. He'd offered to spend the night, but the other nurses were female. Spending a night with them, even if they were surrounded by sick people (though hopefully not sick for much longer, if Merlin's poultices did their job), was the height of impropriety. Merlin might not care about such things, but the women did. They weren't secret sorcerers, so they had a bit more respect for the rules than someone whose mere existence was illegal.

Gaius was, of course, fast asleep when his ward returned. He'd been asleep when Merlin had left, too. It had been torture to stay up while he was so exhausted, but Merlin had read his magic book (nothing about afancs there) and worked on two more poultices until he could hear Gaius's soft snores.

Now, Merlin sank his heavy body into his pallet. It wasn't the most comfortable of beds, but it was warm and just felt so nice after the day he'd….

"Time to get up, Merlin."

"Wha?" The youth blinked blearily.

"Time to get up," Gaius repeated.

"I know how to defeat the afanc."

"What?"

"Well, sort of," Merlin amended. "I talked to Kilgharrah last night. He said that the afanc is a creature of the elements and that its opposites can destroy it. Oh, and apparently I need the dull side's help. Any idea what that means?"

"I don't know anything about this 'dull side' of yours—"

"Oh, that's Arthur."

"—but I think I understand what the dragon meant about elements." Adopting the tone of a lecturer, Gaius continued, "The four elements are earth, water, air, and fire. The afanc is a creature of earth and water."

"Which are opposite to fire and air," Merlin muttered.

"Exactly!" Gaius's face split into a smile.

"So if we got fire and air, we could defeat the afanc!" Merlin threw himself out of bed. "I've got to tell Arthur!"

Gaius grabbed him by the back of his shirt. Merlin stumbled, glared at the older man. The physician simply smiled. "You might want to get dressed first."

* * *

Nimueh was scrying.

The victims of her plague were waking up, healing. The black faded from their veins, the white darkened back to ordinary skin tones. Their eyes lost their pallor.

Had something happened to her afanc? Frowning, the priestess focused her spell on the beast she had created. It was still alive, swimming through the underground water supply, poison dripping from its skin. Nimueh's frown deepened. If the afanc was still alive, then its victims could only have been healed by a sorcerer. A powerful one, too, mage-level strength, judging from how many were moving about the hastily erected sickroom. Much more powerful than that old traitor Gaius.

So there was a sorcerer living in Camelot, some do-gooder who didn't understand what she was trying to accomplish. Didn't this fool see how perfectly the plague demonstrated Uther's helplessness, his incompetence? Soon the people would have risen up to depose their king and his ill-begotten son. They would have begged on bended knee for magic's return. Anything, they would promise, we'll give you anything to stop the sickness.

And then magic would be free.

But, Nimueh grudgingly admitted to herself, afancs were rather obscure. The mage probably just saw an unknown disease ravaging his or her people and stepped up to help. In her younger days, before The Betrayal, Nimueh would have done the same herself.

The afanc lunged out of the water.

Nimueh's focus returned. Lost in thought, she hadn't noticed two young men entering the catacombs beneath Camelot. One of them was the spitting image of his mother Ygraine, strong and regal and golden. The other was paler, with sharp, waifish features and dark hair. Like Arthur, he clutched a sword and a torch; unlike the prince, he had very little idea of how to grip the weapon. A servant, Nimueh presumed, dragged down here for the extra light he would provide.

The men recoiled at the sight of the afanc, which was baring its teeth at them. Arthur stalked forward, sword at the ready. The servant boy's mouth moved. Nimueh cast the spell which would allow her to hear as well as see.

"Shut up, Merlin!" Arthur bellowed, swinging his sword at the beast.

Nimueh smiled. Did he honestly think he could destroy a creature of magic with a mortal blade?

"The torch!" the servant boy, Merlin, cried. "Use the torch!"

The afanc knocked aside Arthur's blade. Fear crossed the prince's face. He backed away.

Merlin's expression hardened. His mouth moved, but he spoke so quietly that Nimueh could not hear his words.

Wind gusted down the cave, gorging the fire of Arthur's torch into a wall of flame. The wind blew the fireball forward, right onto the afanc. Flame and air met earth and water. The elements collided, cancelling each other out.

The afanc died with a scream.

Nimueh was not often taken by surprise, but this? This surprised her. A servant in Camelot, a sorcerer? Why would he—of course. He was getting close to the royal family. Right now, he could easily kill Arthur, blame the afanc. Nimueh's breathing quickened. She leaned forward, eyes bright with anticipation.

Merlin helped Arthur to his feet. "You all right?"

"I think so. No thanks to you, though, Merlin."

The sorcerer grinned at the Pendragon, who grinned back. There was genuine warmth there, genuine affection—not just from Arthur Pendragon, but from Merlin as well.

It was unthinkable. A _sorcerer_ had befriended the son of Uther Pendragon. A _sorcerer _had saved Arthur Pendragon's life.

"_Merlin,"_ Nimueh spat, the name a curse. Her red-nailed hand swept through the water in her scrying font, breaking the enchantment. Teeth bared, the priestess began to pace. Her sharp, stomping footsteps echoed off the walls of the crystalline cave.

Merlin was a traitor. He had befriended the enemy, even saved the enemy's life. He had thwarted Nimueh, magic's champion, with magic. He would do so again, of that she had no doubt.

He was going to die.

But how to kill a powerful sorcerer? Nimueh briefly considered popping by to let Uther know that oh, by the way, your son's servant Merlin has magic (it wasn't like he could actually catch her, much less kill her. Teleportation was handy like that), but anyone capable of healing thirty-seven people of afanc poisoning before wielding the elements against the afanc itself could easily escape the king of Camelot. She needed a public way to kill him.

It would have to be fast-acting and probably a poison of some kind, as she didn't know what kinds of physical shields the traitor kept on his person. Something obscure, so obscure that a boy so young wouldn't know how to counter it. Mortaeus, perhaps? And, she realized, he would either have to not notice the poison until it knocked him out or be unable to destroy it before consumption. There were two ways to do that.

She could hope that he didn't have any spells to alert him to poison and try to sneak it into his food or drink. Unfortunately, if he did have spells to alert him to poison, he'd survive and know someone was out to kill him. Nimueh knew she could defeat the boy—was she not a high priestess of the Old Religion?—but she wanted him dead and out of the way, not alive and meddling.

Her other option was to make him knowingly drink poison but remain unable to stop its effects without revealing his magic. That would be a bit more difficult, but she knew she could make it work. Now she just needed to figure out how….

Two weeks later, Nimueh carried out her plans. She disguised herself as a serving girl in King Bayard's party. In her disguise, she got ahold of the ceremonial goblet, spread mortaeus poison along its rim. The sorceress smirked. Let Merlin's inexplicable loyalty towards Arthur be his undoing. How very fitting that the traitor should betray himself.

After that, it was child's play to ensure that Merlin drank from the cup. Few boys his age could resist the chance to impress a pretty girl with his heroics, and Arthur's mage was no exception. The dark-haired youth strode through the halls of Camelot, making a beeline for Arthur and the kings.

Nimueh murmured a spell that would render her virtually invisible and followed. She wanted to watch the traitor die.

As she watched Merlin disrupt the peace talks and potentially restart the longstanding war between Mercia and Camelot, Nimueh reached out with her magic. The faded remnants of Gaius's gift cowered before her lightest touch. No surprise there. The traitor had always been weak, barely more than a hedge wizard, and twenty-plus years of abstaining from magic had diminished his abilities even further. The dark-haired girl sitting close to Uther had magic within her, a bud on the verge of blossoming. Pity stabbed at Nimueh's heart. Poor little witch, growing up here in Uther's court. When her powers did manifest (which they should have already. Only iron self-control and a deep-seated fear of possessing magic had kept them at bay thus far), she would be terrified. Nimueh made a mental note to keep an eye on this girl. Perhaps she would hunt Morgause down and ask for her help in training the fledgling witch.

No one else in the hall had magic. There were a few who could learn if they chose to apply themselves, but Gaius and the girl were the only ones who actually possessed the art.

But that was impossible.

She should be able to sense Merlin. She had seen him use magic to defeat the afanc, and _someone_ had healed the plague's victims. The old traitor lacked the strength; the young witch lacked the experience. She should feel the power rolling off of Merlin. Instead, all she felt from him was an old glamor around his eyes.

"_Besceawodnes clæneu_," Nimueh chanted. Her magic bored through the weak old illusion around Merlin's eyes, but she was too far away to see any difference. The witch frowned. "_Guðhafoces eaggebyrd_."

Behind the mirage of blue irises, Merlin's eyes were bright and brilliant gold.

He wasn't using a spell. His true eyes were coin-yellow, an unnatural shade that looked perfectly natural in Merlin's face. Nimueh didn't understand, but fear tickled at the back of her throat. A man with golden eyes, a powerful mage without detectable magic…. It was disturbing, deeply disturbing. It shouldn't _be_.

Merlin raised the poisoned goblet to his mouth.

Nimueh fought the absurd urge to reveal herself, to dart forward and knock the cup from the fool's hand. She wanted to know who he was, _what_ he was. But the priestess was no fool. She stopped herself from lunging forward and demanding answers.

For a long moment, Merlin was fine. Then his muscles gave out on him. The young sorcerer collapsed.

Pandemonium erupted. Bayard wanted to know who had poisoned his ceremonial goblet, Uther wanted Bayard's head on a pike, the soldiers on both sides wanted a fight, and Arthur Pendragon just wanted everyone to shut _up_ and go get Gaius (who he didn't seem to realize was twenty feet away from him) NOW before his idiot manservant went and died on him.

The old traitor pushed his way through the crowd. He checked the sorcerer's pulse, nearly crumpled with relief when he saw that Merlin was safe. Clearly he had no idea that the boy had magic; if he'd known, he'd have let the youth die as he'd let so many of his kin perish. Instead, the physician directed Prince Arthur and a worried-looking servant girl to carry the young sorcerer to safety.

Nimueh followed.

Traitor or not, magic or not, Gaius was still a skilled physician. Nimueh hadn't expected him to recognize mortaeus poisoning, much less to know the cure. But he did recognize it, and soon Arthur was making plans to go find the mortaeus flower to save his manservant.

The mere thought of a Pendragon saving a sorcerer was almost enough to send Nimueh into fits of hysterical laughter.

As the prince left, Nimueh crept closer to Merlin's bedside. She had dropped the spells on her vision; if Merlin's were open, she would see only blue. Nimueh ghosted a finger across Merlin's brow.

Magic.

Merlin had magic, she could finally sense that now, but it was like no magic she'd ever seen or even heard of. His power was like the forest or the ocean or the stars, raw and natural and vast beyond understanding. The boy didn't just _have_ magic; he was _made_ of it, much like a dragon or a griffin or a unicorn. He was human—she could sense that his elemental magic was channeled into human spells—but at the same time, he was a creature of magic, and that was impossible.

A changeling? No. She'd felt magic from the Sidhe before. It had been years since that day, but she still remembered the touch of their power. Merlin certainly possessed elements of Sidhe magic, elements she had never felt in a human being, but he was just that: human. Most of his power was natural magic under human control.

Whatever Merlin was (she had the feeling that she ought to know, but the knowledge trickled through her grasp like water through a sieve), he was clearly not immune to mortaeus poison. The boy's face was pale, his hair rapidly dampening with sweat. His eyes twitched rapidly behind their lids. Within mere days, he would be dead and gone.

Unless, of course, Arthur acquired the antidote.

All the gossips agreed that the young prince was a superb athlete, gifted in everything from riding to swordplay to dancing. He could doubtless fight off the beasts in the Cave of Balor, acquire the mortaeus flower, and ride home before Merlin expired.

So Nimueh laid a trap for him.

Like his manservant, Arthur was only too willing to help a damsel in distress. Chivalrous fools, the both of them. Still, that suited Nimueh's purposes perfectly.

Personally, she thought that her weeping and wailing was a bit much. Was the scratch on her arm mildly painful? Yes. Was it enough to reduce any rational person to a quivering mess of tears? No, and certainly not a high priestess of the Old Religion. But, Nimueh reminded herself, she wasn't playing a rational human being. She was a damsel in distress, a poor helpless maid in desperate need of a knight in shining armor.

The prince tied his horse to a nearby stump. "Hello?" he called, uncertain about how to approach the weeping woman.

Nimueh kept up her theatrical sobbing. As the prince cautiously made his way towards her, she rubbed at her eyes to hide the lack of tears.

Arthur was just about to put an armored hand on her shoulder when the cockatrice roared.

The Vates had once told Nimueh that no Pendragon would die at her hand. That was why she had made sure to provoke the cockatrice. It was more the capable of defeating Uther's little prince, and she would be able to watch Arthur's death without defying the prophecy.

Nimueh screamed. Arthur winced at the loud, shrill cry that was far too close to his ears.

"Stay back." Backing away from Nimueh, Arthur sized up the creature. The cockatrice's overall appearance was reptilian. It was covered in scales of gray-black and brown, its skin loose over its compact frame. Four stout, muscular legs ended in thick blackish claws. The tail was unarmored, meant mainly for balance and protection rather than as a weapon. If something ever caught ahold of the beast (not likely, as few animals were stupid enough to hunt cockatrices), its tail would break off and regrow within the fortnight. Twin sails rose from its back. Its neck snaked out before it. The lizard-like head was filled with teeth. Lots and lots of sharp, vicious teeth.

Arthur, apparently deciding that he was far enough from the poor helpless girl, drew his sword. He proceeded to twirl it about in a series of flashy, impractical maneuvers that served no purpose whatsoever. Nimueh arched a brow at that. Did the prince think that her cockatrice would be so impressed by his swordplay that it would just leave him alone? No, it would kill him, its venom congealing his blood within his veins. Then, as his body failed around him, the cockatrice would feast. Arthur's death would be slow and painful.

Nimueh smiled.

The beast reared up on its hind legs, snarling and roaring in challenge. It charged. Arthur held his ground until the last second, then dove beneath the leaping monster. He rolled, somehow managing to not impale himself, and stood. The cockatrice's momentum carried it forward. Its body was meant for brute strength, not agility, and it had to run several more paces before it managed to turn around.

Arthur threw his sword at it.

If Nimueh had not been so incredulous, she would have laughed. The cockatrice was twenty feet away from Arthur. Its hide was an inch thick and armored in rock-hard scales. Did Arthur really think that throwing his sword—his _spinning_ sword, no less—would do anything other than—

The sword penetrated deep into the monster's flesh, slicing through scales and muscles into its heart. The beast fell to its side, already convulsing with death throes.

That was just—how in the world had that happened? Nimueh wondered wildly. People can't just chuck heavy metal objects at angry creatures of magic and expect to survive! That throw had to violate at _least_ three laws of nature, not to mention common sense and the rules of probability. And yet, in spite of sanity itself, the cockatrice lay dead.

…was this some sort of _joke?_

Arthur carried on as though twirling sword tosses of death were perfectly rational. "I'm not going to hurt you," he told Nimueh, sheathing his blade and moving towards her. His eyes focused on her red arms, the claw marks and bruises. "Who did this to you?"

She hadn't expected him to survive this long. Time to make things up. "My master," Nimueh improvised. Her voice quivered a bit. "I ran away from him, but then I got lost." She opened her eyes very wide and fixed that sad blue gaze on Arthur. "Please don't leave me."

"I won't," the idiot prince promised. "I'm not going to."

Hmm. Perhaps there was another way to keep him away from the mortaeus flower. "You'll take me from here?" she sniffled.

"Not yet," Arthur replied. "There's something I need to do first."

Nimueh followed his gaze to an opening in a hill. "Why have you come to the caves?" she asked.

Arthur went to tend his horse. "I'm looking for something," he explained. "It can only be found here."

"What is it?" Nimueh inquired, the very picture of innocence. "I know this place. I could help you."

"It's a type of flower that only grows inside the cave. They're very rare."

"The mortaeus flower?" Nimueh smiled. "I know where they are. I'll show you."

Arthur swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

There were many places in the cave where the mortaeus flower grew, and many ways to get to those locations. Nimueh led Arthur through the longest, most complicated route she could. Skilled tracker or not, he'd never find his way out of the cave in time to save Merlin—assuming he got out at all.

"There they are," the priestess announced, pointing to a small cluster of orange-yellow blooms. The flowers were growing in a small niche on the wall of the cave. Unfortunately for Arthur, though, there was a yawning chasm between the patch of ground on which he stood and the mortaeus plants. He walked past Nimueh onto a narrow tongue of stone that projected over the huge gap. The rock groaned under his weight.

"Stay back," Arthur ordered. Then, encouragingly, "Don't worry. We'll be out of here soon."

Step. Step. Despite his earlier stunt with the sword, Arthur had sense enough to proceed cautiously, testing the stone to make sure it wouldn't give out under him. Too bad he didn't have enough sense not to turn his back on an enemy.

"_Eorthe, lyft, fyr, waeter, hiesumie me."_

Nimueh didn't bother to speak quietly. She spoke her spell loudly, clearly. She wanted Arthur to know what he was dealing with.

"_Eorthe ac stanas hiersumie me. Ic can stanas tobrytan..."_

"What are you doing?" the prince demanded.

"_...hiersumi me."_

The stone crumbled beneath Arthur's feet.

The prince jumped, pushing himself off the falling rock and slamming into the wall of the cave. His fingers scrambled for a grip. When he found it, he hung there, swaying slightly from his forward momentum. The torch tumbled from his grasp into the drop below.

"I expected so much more," Nimueh sneered.

"Who are you?" the prince growled. His hand slipped. With a grunt, he grabbed wildly at the wall. His legs kicked against solid rock, unable to find a decent toehold.

"The last face you'll ever see," Nimueh told him.

Something hissed. An enormous spider, its foot-long legs covered in hair, scuttled out from its hiding place. "It seems we have a visitor," the priestess noted, observing Arthur's spike of fear with pleasure.

Arthur pulled himself away, scrambling to the side, but the spider was too fast. The prince grabbed his sword, somehow drew it and brandished it at the hairy insect without falling to his death. The spider hissed and spat, jabbed at the sword with its legs and pincers. Arthur flailed about. A lucky blow connected with the spider, sending it tumbling into the depths below.

"Very good," Nimueh chuckled, impressed despite herself, "but he won't be the last. I'll let his friends finish you off, Arthur Pendragon. It's not your destiny to die at my hand."

The priestess turned and walked away, leaving Uther's son to his fate.

* * *

_Besceawodnes_: sight, vision; strong feminine noun in nominative singular

_Clæneu_: true, unencumbered, unfettered, clear; strong adjective in feminine nominative singular

_Besceawodnes clæneu_: "unfettered vision"; spell used to see through illusions (my invention)

_Guðhafoces_: hawk, eagle; strong masculine noun in genitive singular

_Eaggebyrd_: the power or nature of the eye; strong feminine noun in nominative singular

_Guðhafoces eaggebyrd_: "power of the hawk's eye"; spell for improving day vision (my invention)

Several lines in the 1X04 section, including the words of Nimueh's 'hiersumie me' spell, are dialogue directly from the episode. According to the Merlin Wiki, that spell translates to "Earth, air, fire, water, obey me. Earth and stones obey me. I have the knowledge to break the stones into pieces. Obey me." The Old English words I used to create the other spells come from www. oldenglishtranslator. co. uk/ Just take out the spaces if you want to visit.

Does enjoying Nimueh's POV so much make me a terrible person?

I promised Robyn S. Mockingbird to give out a challenge: observant!Arthur and not-cryptic!Kilgharrah. We have no idea what else would happen, just that those two things would be there. Any takers?

Happy Independence Day, my fellow Americans!

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein the Mighty Warrior-Prince of Camelot Embarks on an Epic Quest to Pick a Pretty Little Flower_"

Next update: July 17. See you then!


	4. Guiding Light

Chapter IV: Guiding Light

Arthur Pendragon, prince of Camelot, was having a very bad week.

First his useless idiot manservant had gone and gotten himself poisoned. Then his father had pretty much rekindled a costly and unpopular war by throwing the poisoner into prison. _Then _his father had forbidden him from saving the aforementioned idiot, except that wasn't _right _because that poison had been meant for him and Merlin had known it and he'd drunk it anyways to save his prince, and Arthur was _not_ going to reward that loyal selflessness with death no matter how incredibly stupid it was. So he'd disobeyed his father and king, which was technically treason, sneaking out of his own citadel and journeying to a smelly cave that might or might not be haunted and was certainly infested with enormous, demonic spiders.

Yes, spiders. He didn't know if the sorceress had conjured them up or enlarged them or if they'd been here all along just waiting for their next meal, but he was currently hanging over a yawning gap listening as spiders the size of his head skittered towards him to feast upon his princely flesh. He couldn't even see the awful things—he'd dropped his torch while trying not to plummet to his death, and the witch had taken her light with her. He was so far into the cave that no sunlight could reach him, and his torch had either gone out when he dropped it or was so far beneath him that he couldn't see the fire.

Arthur had never experienced pitch blackness before. He'd had fire or moonlight or a combination of the two even in the dead of night. Now, it was as though he'd gone blind. Everything was black.

As if to compensate for his loss of sight, his hearing went into overdrive. Arthur wished that it hadn't. He could hear the spiders' soft footsteps as they climbed towards him, hear his body straining to lift himself out of their way. His breath, his heartbeat, the blood swooshing in his veins—every last sound echoed in his ears, underscoring the chitter-chitter of the spiders' mandibles.

Were those things venomous? He'd only seen one before losing his light, and it had certainly looked venomous. Even if the creatures didn't have venom, they were big enough to do a lot of damage, and they were not at all inconvenienced by the darkness around them. If those mandibles got to his neck….

If only he could see! There were handholds above him, there _had_ to be handholds above him, but he couldn't feel them through his armored hands and could hardly pull off his gloves while hanging from his fingertips over a who-knows-how-long drop. But he couldn't see, so he'd just have to fight off the spiders long enough to find a handhold, then another, then a third and fourth until he was out of the cavern. He'd have to regroup, leave the cave, get a torch, but once he had light he could come back and get the antidote for Merlin. He could do this. He just needed light.

And then there _was_ light.

It appeared with no warning, no explanation, blossoming out of the very air like some supernatural flower. The silver-blue tendrils of luminescence spiraled out from their origin, curving into a perfect sphere about a foot across. Pale bluish lines flowed around the white globe's surface. The misty, semi-transparent orb floated beside the stunned prince, dispelling the darkness.

Arthur gawked at the blatantly magical sphere for a long moment. Then something hairy touched his neck. He glanced down, saw (saw! He could see again! He'd never appreciated just how wonderful sight could be) a dark arachnid climbing onto him.

The light brightened. Gold veins joined its blue highlights as it flew up through Arthur's shoulder. The orb engulfed the spider, white and yellow and cerulean swallowing the spot of darkness. Though the light had not hurt Arthur, it proved deadly to the arachnid. The creature squealed, shriveled. Its limp form tumbled off the stunned prince's shoulder, fell into the black depths below.

The other spiders, wary from the death of their comrade, slowed their ascent. Pincers clicked malevolently as the beady red eyes took in the new threat. The sphere pulsed in response, hovered protectively near the prince.

Arthur snapped out of his shock. He would have time to think about this later. For now, he had a flower to pick.

Teeth gritted, muscles straining, the prince forced his aching fingers into another handhold, then another, then another. The tiny orange mortaeus flower was five feet away… three… two….

Arthur's hand wrapped around the plant. He pulled.

The light had dropped below him. He spared it a brief glance, saw that it was hovering between him and the spiders. Whenever one of the creatures tried to advance, the orb would swallow it whole. Then the monster would squeal and die and fall, and the light would return to its former place beneath Arthur's feet.

Arthur searched for some way to get to the ground. His arms were killing him; he wouldn't be able to hold himself up much longer. He had to stand or he'd lose his grip and fall. Blue eyes landed on a ledge to his right and slightly above him. It was narrow, but he'd still be able to stand on it, rest his screaming arms.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. His shoulders were on fire, his fingers losing strength. Just another couple of feet, that was all he needed, just another couple of feet and then he could rest….

With a final heave, Arthur pulled himself onto the ledge. He stood, back pressed against the wall, and surveyed his situation.

The light was keeping the spiders at bay. They could get past it if they all charged at once, but, fortunately for Arthur, these arachnids didn't seem any smarter than their tiny counterparts. They hadn't swarmed it yet and probably weren't going to. So he had light, he had protection, and he had the mortaeus flower. Now all he needed was a way out of here.

Well, that was easy enough. Arthur crouched and jumped.

He flew across the gap, landing heavily on the other side. The prince staggered and fell. For a moment he just lay there, gasping and panting, then he pushed himself to his feet. The friendly orb floated over to him, danced about his shoulders, then floated over his head into the tunnel. It stopped there, hovering near the ceiling. Arthur could almost imagine it asking (in a voice that sounded remarkably like Merlin's) what he was waiting for.

The thought made him laugh. It was a weak chuckle, breathless and harsh, but it made the light bob and brighten before swooping back to his face. The prince imagined that the orb was laughing with him. It hovered there, pulsing merrily, then darted away.

"Who sent you?" Arthur asked softly, but the light didn't respond. It simply waited.

The misty orb moved as he did, guiding him through the twisting, turning cave. Once, when Arthur tried to turn left instead of right (he was fairly certain that he'd come that way), the globe swirled around him before returning to the right-hand path. "All right, all right," the prince grumbled.

As he followed his magical guide, Arthur let his thoughts wander. Any idiot could see that the light was supernatural in nature, that a sorcerer had sent it. But who had saved him and why? It certainly wasn't the witch who had led him to the spiders. She had been quite clear that she expected him to die, that she wanted him dead even if he couldn't die by her hand (whatever that meant). This light was benevolent, friendly, even. It had saved him from the spiders, from the darkness, from being lost forever in the labyrinthine tunnels. Even now it was bringing him through the caves.

He supposed that it could be a trap. The light could, in theory, be leading him to a crazy sorcerer who wanted to kill Uther Pendragon's son with his own bare hands. It seemed like an awful lot of unnecessary busywork to the prince, but he supposed that luring him into a spider-infested cave by poisoning his manservant was also impracticably complicated. His father was always telling him how sorcery warped minds and souls; maybe convoluted death traps were symptomatic of sorcerers' magical madness.

But something told him that this beautiful shining light, this beacon that banished the gloom, was different. It wasn't just that the misty orb had saved him. It was the way it stayed close to him even after the spiders were gone, the playfulness with which it had flown around his head. It was the strange, inexplicable sense of familiarity, the instinct of trust, his complete lack of fear when it had appeared. He should have been terrified to see such blatant unnaturalness appearing from nowhere, but he'd only felt wonder and shock and relief.

No. Whoever had sent the light was on his side. He could feel it in his bones.

But why?

All his life, he'd been taught that sorcery was evil, that magic corrupted and destroyed. Once a sorcerer got a taste of power, he was an addict, giving away more and more of his soul in exchange for magical strength. That was why even magical healers had to die—perhaps they had started out with good intentions, but they would inevitably be corrupted by a force that no human being should ever touch.

So, Arthur concluded, the sorcerer (or sorceress, he supposed) who had saved his life must be a relatively inexperienced magic user. His father would say that it would be a mercy to kill him now, before the corruption took root. And yet… and yet….

The light was beautiful. Arthur was well aware that something being beautiful didn't necessarily make it good, but he couldn't believe that the light had been conjured by something purely evil. It was just so… it was so pure, so remarkable. He couldn't quite convince himself that its maker should be destroyed. The thought was treason, but he just couldn't.

He'd never seen beautiful magic before.

Arthur already knew he wasn't going to tell his father about this. How could he? He loved and respected his father more than anyone else, but he knew that Uther wouldn't understand. The king would send witchfinders and bounty hunters to hunt down this sorcerer, and that seemed a poor way to repay someone for saving his life.

Wait. Arthur squinted, picked up his pace. Was that sunlight?

It was! He could see the end of the cave, see the outside world. Grinning widely, the prince ran towards freedom. The magical orb zoomed alongside him.

The witch hadn't killed or taken his horse. The stallion was munching on some grass, completely unconcerned that his master had nearly been eaten by giant spider monsters. He looked up as Arthur entered the clearing, gave a low nicker of greeting.

The light vanished. Arthur was surprised by the pang of loneliness its absence inspired in him. Then the prince shook his head, told himself not to be ridiculous.

Yet though the light was gone, he couldn't get it out of his mind as he rode back to Camelot. It was just so strange and impossible and oddly wonderful, even though it really shouldn't be, because it meant that somewhere, for some reason he couldn't fathom, a sorcerer had deliberately, knowingly chosen to save the son of Uther Pendragon.

Arthur wondered if he would ever meet his mysterious benefactor. He wondered what he would do if he did.

He had to stop and camp for the night, but around noon the next day he passed through the gates of Camelot, tired, wan, and triumphant.

That triumph faded rather quickly after Uther had him thrown into the dungeons.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur yelled, glaring at his father through the bars.

"Because you disobeyed me when the king and prince must present a united front," Uther snapped.

"I did it to save a boy's life!"

Uther turned.

"Wait!" Arthur cried. "At least give Merlin the antidote!"

Uther walked away.

Arthur stared in slack-jawed disbelief at his father. He couldn't… was his father really going to let Merlin die just to prove some stupid point? Sure, Merlin could be infuriating at times and Arthur had occasionally wanted to throttle him, but he'd knowingly drunk poison to save his master and he was dying for it and now Arthur had his only hope for survival and Uther wouldn't let the prince give it to him. The knight just couldn't understand. He couldn't understand why his father, his king, would let an innocent boy die when _the cure is right here_.

He had to escape. He had to find some way of getting the flower to Merlin before his servant died.

Or he could tell the guards to save Merlin. He did just that, but the guards refused. Neither wanted to face Uther's punishment, especially when he was in such a foul mood.

Arthur could have screamed. Did no one in Camelot care about honor anymore?

"Food for the prince," a woman's voice announced. The guards stepped aside for her. Arthur absently identified her as Guinevere, Morgana's maid. She came to him carrying a tray of cold-cut meat and bread. "My apologies for the low quality, Sire," she murmured demurely, "but your father…." She handed him the plate. Dark eyes bored into blue. In a whisper, Guinevere begged, "Give me the flower."

Arthur smiled. His hand slipped into his armor, came out clutching a withered orange plant. As Guinevere passed him some bread, he slipped the blossom to her.

The maid beamed, her entire face lighting up. Arthur blinked in surprise. He'd never realized quite how beautiful she was.

Guinevere passed him the last of his food, turned around, and walked away, completely composed. Looking at her, he would never have guessed that she was skirting on treason.

Arthur smiled and settled down to eat.

He managed to remain still through the course of his cold, dry meal, but found that he couldn't stay still once his food was gone. Then his thoughts swarmed like bees in his brain, and he had to pace back and forth, back and forth to relieve his tension. He felt like a caged animal and probably looked like one too, but he just couldn't sit around while Merlin might be dying.

That was when he realized just how deep his concern for the lanky manservant was. It was completely irrational. Merlin was lazy and incompetent and mouthy and not particularly bright; he didn't understand the concept of station, despised hunting, and felt no qualms about disobeying his master. By all rights, Arthur should hate him.

The prince, being a man and a knight, was not overly inclined to analyzing his emotions. However, he was locked in a cell for the foreseeable future and really had nothing better to do, not to mention that he couldn't get Merlin's pale face and boneless slump out of his head. Arthur examined his concern, delved deep into it, and came to the conclusion that he only wanted Merlin alive so that he could yell at him for being stupid enough to drink poison. That was it. He _definitely _wasn't growing fond of the pea-brained nitwit.

Or at least, that's what Arthur spent the remainder of his confinement trying to convince himself.

Finally, finally, after hours that felt like years, the guards released him. Arthur was proud to say that he did _not_ rush straight to his idiot manservant; he stopped by the kitchens to grab a plate of food before making his way to the physician's chambers.

Merlin was alive. He was pale and scrawny and wild-haired and looked so small in his too-big sleeping shirt. His face was still creased with exhaustion, his eyes half-lidded. He was only sitting because Gaius or Guinevere had positioned pillows beneath him to hold him up. But he was alive and smiling as he talked with his guardian, his eyes bright.

"You know, Merlin," Arthur drawled, "most people rise in the presence of their prince."

The insolent sod grinned at him, his eyes going all big and innocent. "But, Arthur, I thought we'd gotten past that point in our relationship after you went through so much trouble just to get me a flower!"

Gaius choked. Guinevere erupted into a very fake coughing fit that did nothing whatsoever to cover her laughter.

Arthur just threw a roll at Merlin's head. "Shut up, you." But he, too, was smiling. "And just so you know, I only got you that blasted flower because you were stupid enough to drink poison. What the hell did you do that for, you bloody idiot?"

Merlin's face sobered. "Was I supposed to let you drink it?"

"You weren't supposed to drink it yourself!" Arthur pulled up a chair by his servant's bedside. "Most people wouldn't need me to explain that to them."

"I'm special."

Arthur snorted. "Yes, I suppose that's one word for it."

Merlin looked hopefully at the tray of food in Arthur's hands. "Is that for me?"

"It's for me, actually, but I suppose I could let you have the leftovers." Merlin grabbed a drumstick. "Hey! That's not a leftover!"

Merlin swallowed. "You just don't want to admit that you got me dinner and a flower," he teased.

"Yes," Arthur grumbled, "that's it exactly." And he dumped a gobletful of water onto Merlin's head.

* * *

Merlin leaned back into his pillows with a sigh of contentment. He didn't think he'd had a day off since arriving in Camelot, so it was nice to just sit back and read his spell book and relax. Arthur was safe, Uther had somehow called off the war with Bayard, and life was good.

Well, okay, it wasn't entirely good. Gaius believed that Cara, the girl who had warned him about the poison, was really the sorceress who had created the afanc, and that she had been after him instead of Arthur. Not that the old man was telling him anything else, like who she was or why, exactly, she wanted Camelot destroyed (though that bit, at least, didn't require a whole lot of thought to figure out). He said that he didn't want Merlin going after her, which Merlin thought was a bit ridiculous when the alternative was letting her choose when to try to kill him. But when he'd tried explaining this to Gaius, the physician had still refused to give him any information.

He complained to himself for a while about just how unfair that was, read through a few spells, and took a short nap. Then he was bored. Huffing, Merlin wracked his brains for something to do.

Oh. Oops. He'd forgotten what day it was. Wincing, hoping he wasn't too late, the warlock dragged himself out of bed. After slipping on his boots, he stumbled through Gaius's chambers. The physician wasn't there, much to Merlin's relief. If he wasn't there, he couldn't stop his ward from traipsing through the castle, climbing down several flights of stairs, and entering Kilgharrah's old cave.

Fortunately, the warlock wasn't too late. A fat sheep was wandering through the caverns. Merlin smiled.

When he'd released Kilgharrah, he hadn't anticipated having to hex a sheep every week. Then Gaius had pointed out that _someone _fed the dragon, and that that someone would notice if the dragon's ovine meals survived. That would lead to the discovery that Kilgharrah was free, which would lead to dragon hunts and probably a witch-burning hysteria and other things that Merlin really didn't want to deal with. So he and his scaly friend had made arrangements to smuggle sheep away from the citadel so no one would notice they were still alive.

Every Wednesday, Merlin would sneak into the dragon's old cave and put the animal he found under a sleep spell. The beast would remain unconscious until the middle of the night, when Merlin would return, lead the sheep outside, and recast the sleep spell before Kilgharrah arrived. They usually enjoyed a nice chat before Kilgharrah took the unconscious beast and flew it to Ealdor.

His last letter from Mother had mentioned that the village was accumulating quite a respectable flock.

"_Swefe nu,_" the warlock incanted. The sheep staggered and fell.

It was still unconscious when Merlin returned late that night. The warlock recited the counter spell, then led the beast out of the cave. It struggled when they approached the opening, but Merlin extended a tendril of calming magic, promising that it was safe, that he wouldn't let the big scary dragon hurt it. The animal calmed.

"Greetings, young warlock," Kilgharrah intoned. The night was cloudy, blocking out the moon and stars, but Merlin clutched a fireball that lit up the dragon's bronze scales. The dragon's eyes seemed to glow in the flickering flames.

Merlin smiled. "Greetings, Kilgharrah." He patted the sheep on its head, murmured the sleep spell, and made his way over to the dragon. The human took up his usual position against Kilgharrah's hind leg. He had made it his mission to touch the dragon as much as possible, as Kilgharrah hadn't had any friendly contact for twenty years. He was starved for touch, though he'd never admit it, and Merlin wanted so badly to help him.

The dragon lay down, twisting his neck and body so that his head was facing Merlin. The sorcerer smiled, snuggled closer to the dragon's leg. His friend was pleasantly warm in the brisk evening, and dragon scales were surprisingly comfortable against his back. "Do you remember the sorceress who summoned the afanc?"

"Yes."

"She came back." Merlin told Kilgharrah about the poison, about Gaius's cryptic statements, and about the strange, vivid dream he'd had while dying, a dream about spiders and desperation and light. Arthur hadn't said anything about the ball of light Merlin had dreamt, but he had talked about giant spiders coming for him as he clung to the wall of the cave.

The dragon listened intently, occasionally asking for clarification but mostly intent on hearing the warlock out. When Merlin was finished, Kilgharrah said, "I believe that your dream was a true vision, young warlock. You knew that the prince had quested into a cave in search of a cure before anyone told you what he had done. Even if you heard Gaius and Guinevere discussing the Cave of Balor while you slept, you could not have known about the spiders unless your mind had truly left your body."

Merlin could have slapped himself for missing such an obvious deduction. "Oh."

The dragon's mouth curled into a smile. His exposed fangs glinted in the light of Merlin's floating fireball, but the warlock didn't even think about being afraid. "Do not be so hard on yourself. You are weak still from your ordeal, and the mind rarely functions well when the body is weary. You ought to return to your bed and sleep. Later, I will teach you to mind-walk voluntarily."

"Thank you," Merlin replied quietly, "but can I ask you something before I go?"

"Of course."

Merlin met Kilgharrah's eyes. "This is the second time this sorceress has attacked. Gaius knows who she is, but he won't tell me. Who is she, Kilgharrah?"

The dragon shifted slightly. "For once," he confessed, "I agree with the physician."

"What? But—"

"She is powerful and dangerous, and though you to have great power, you lack her experience. I do not want you to seek her."

"So I'm supposed to wait for her to come and kill me?"

"Of course not." Kilgharrah looked offended by the very thought. "I will seek her out."

Merlin pulled up short. "You'd do that for me?"

"For you and for Albion," the dragon replied.

"Right. Albion." Merlin frowned. "If you find her, what will you do?"

"I will speak with her, explain who you are and who Arthur is. This sorceress is a high priestess of the Old Religion. She will know of the prophecies."

"But what if she doesn't believe you?"

"She will." Kilgharrah's lips pulled back, revealing more of his sharp ivory fangs. "I can be very persuasive when I want to be."

Merlin laughed.

Kilgharrah stood, stretched. Merlin climbed to his feet, already missing the dragon's warmth at his back. It might be summer, but the night was unusually cold. "Thank you. This is the best news I've had since the afanc died." On impulse, he darted towards the startled dragon and wrapped his arms around the scaly neck. Kilgharrah went rigid before relaxing, laying his great head on Merlin's shoulder.

"You are very welcome, Merlin." He pulled away from the boy's embrace. "Now off to bed with you."

* * *

Just a few notes on the light: It's very common cross-culturally for magic users to be able to leave their bodies. The mulukwausi of the Trobriands, the sorcerers of the Azande, and the Friulian benandanti and malandanti are just a couple of examples. Mulukwausi and Zande sorcerers even appear in the form of light when they're wandering around without their bodies. The tradition extends back to truly ancient times, since shamans often left their bodies in soul flight. It continued on through the Middle Ages, when doctors of the Church argued back and forth about whether witches attended Black Mass physically or if they just flew there in spirit (this is also when the benandanti came into conflict with the Church. For more information about them, read _The Night Battles_ by Carlo Ginzburg). The tradition survives today as astral projection. So yes, Merlin is going to learn to do that, as he should have in the show.

Notes on Kilgharrah: He was essentially in solitary confinement for almost twenty years in the show. According to Wikipedia, solitary confinement for more than a few weeks is considered a form of psychological torture, and people in solitary are highly at risk for developing mental illness. Touch deprivation, a result of Kilgharrah's confinement, is another serious problem that can cause medical and psychological issues. Obviously, this research was done on humans, not dragons, but I think that it's applicable.

Edit 7/22: Robyn S. Mockingbird pointed out that the spiders would be venomous, not poisonous, so I changed 'poison' to 'venom.' Thanks, Robyn!

Next update: July 31. A new POV and a new plot that highlights Gwen and Morgana's friendship. See you then!

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein Merlin Proves Himself a Spider-Slaying Badass Despite Being Unconscious, Poisoned, Dying, and Several Miles Away from the Spiders in Question_"

-Antares


	5. Guinevere's Vow

Chapter V: Guinevere's Vow

"Sooooo," Morgana said, eyes bright with mischief, "how is your Merlin doing?"

Gwen flushed, a very recent memory rushing to the forefront of her mind. "Oh, hush," she mock-grumbled, reaching down to gather up a laundry basket. "There's nothing between us."

"Really?" Morgana drawled, lips twitching.

"Really," Gwen confirmed. Her blush deepened. "I may have… er… made my interests a bit obvious—all right, that's something of an understatement—but he had been dying! And then he was alive and I was just so relieved that I did something very silly and, well, he said that he wasn't interested in me in that way—not in those exact words, of course—"

"What happened?" Morgana interrupted.

Gwen straightened, laundry basket in hand, unable to excuse her crouch anymore. She just knew that her cheeks were flaming. Not for the first time, she thanked her father for her skin tone. Someone as pale as Morgana would strongly resemble a tomato if she was blushing this badly. "I kissed him when he woke up."

"And?" Morgana leaned forward, eager for more details.

"And he blushed and stammered and told me that while he was flattered, he really didn't think it would work." Gwen gave a helpless little shrug. "He sees me as a friend, not a potential soul mate, and after that kiss, I'm starting to think he might be right." She smiled sadly. "There wasn't any passion, and while I think part of that might have been due to him just waking up—actually, it probably was—I think that a lot of it was just that some people are better off as friends."

Morgana was frowning. In an effort to cut off the inevitable growling about how Gwen was the best person around, she deserved her pick of men, and Merlin was an idiot for not seeing that, the maid hastily added, "Like you and me, for instance. Unless there's something you're not telling me?"

The lady choked, spluttered out a laugh. Gwen laughed along, pleased that the heat was fading from her cheeks.

"Yes, Gwen. There is indeed something I'm not telling you." Green eyes danced with mirth. "I think we should be mortal enemies from now on."

Gwen laughed again. Morgana tried to remain stoic-faced and (relatively) serious, but soon gave up and joined in.

The laughter died down, as all laughter must do eventually. Humming softly, her mood still light after their jokes, Gwen began putting clean dresses into Morgana's wardrobe. They continued for a few minutes in companionable silence.

Morgana was the first to speak. "Seriously, though, Gwen. If you want to talk about Merlin… well… about Merlin's choice, I'm here."

"Thank you, my lady," Gwen replied quietly. "That means a lot to me."

By this point, she'd hung up all her mistress's clean laundry. The maid looked around, saw yesterday's discarded dress and shift. She deposited them into the basket. "I'll be back soon. Should I get you a sleeping draught while I'm out?"

The last vestiges of Morgana's smile faded. "Yes. But…." She trailed off into silence.

"They got worse?" Gwen asked, not at all surprised. Both women knew that Morgana's dreams got worse during times of stress, and what with Merlin almost dying and Uther declaring war (and then deciding to keep the peace, though no one was entirely certain why) things had certainly been stressful lately.

"Yes," Morgana confirmed with a heavy sigh. "I dreamed about the road again."

"What was last night's obstacle?" Gwen queried. Her friend had told her all about the strange dreams with the split path and the shadow-faced man's inexplicable presence.

Morgana remained quiet.

"My lady?"

No response.

"Morgana?"

"…You know that I'd dreamt of spiders," Morgana blurted. She winced. "On the road, that is. Huge spiders the size of my head and a reptilian thing with sails on its back and a dark cave." The lady sank onto her bed. Her hands rested in her lap, fisting the fabric of her dress. Her knuckles were white. "And that's what Arthur was talking about: spiders and a sail-backed reptile and a dark cave." Her fists clenched and unclenched, wrinkling the fabric. "I'm starting to think that sleeping draughts can't help with… this." Her shoulders were shaking.

Gwen nearly dropped her laundry basket. She caught it at the last moment, though, and put it down gently before gliding over to sit at her friend's side. The maidservant opened her arms, folded them around her trembling mistress. Morgana buried her face in her friend's shoulder.

"I'm scared, Gwen."

The words came out in a whisper that was further muffled by her friend's body. Gwen could only imagine how much the confession cost her proud friend. She squeezed tighter, wondering how on earth she could help with something like this.

"You know my mother was one," Morgana continued.

"Your mother had to train for years," Gwen reminded her.

Morgana nodded. "But what if—what if there's more to it than training? What if you don't choose it? What if it chooses you?"

"I don't know," Gwen was forced to admit.

Morgana shuddered.

"But," Gwen continued, "there's an easy enough way to test if these dreams are… special."

Morgana jerked out of the embrace. Red-rimmed eyes focused hopefully, intently, on Gwen's expression.

"If the next obstacle from the dream appears, then it really…." Gwen didn't want to say it. "And if… if it does make an appearance in the real world, well, I suppose we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Er, _if_ we come to it. If. There's a possibility that this is just a coincidence. In fact, it probably is."

The king's ward might be distraught, but she still managed an incredulous snort.

"Well," Gwen protested, hands aflutter, "stranger coincidences have happened!"

"Like what?"

"Ah…." Gwen searched her memories. Inspiration struck. "Oh! Do you remember the story about Elyan and me and the tomatoes?"

"How could I forget?"

Gwen smiled. The story _was_ quite unforgettable. "Yes. So stranger coincidences have happened, and, well, if it's not—not that I don't think it's not, because I do. I don't think this is anything more than a strange coincidence like the one we just mentioned. But—but if I'm wrong, I'll help you. Somehow. I haven't figured that part out yet. But I will, Morgana. I swear it."

"Thank you." A tentative smile flickered across Morgana's face. "_Thank you._"

"You're welcome," Gwen replied, trying very hard not to think about the fact that she might have just promised to commit treason. She leaned over, reached once again for the laundry basket. "But I'll get still the sleeping draught on my way back. Better safe than sorry, right?" She pushed herself off the bed, started heading toward the door.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Didn't you want to know about the thing I saw? The thing that might be coming?"

Oh. That was right. She had been so focused on the whole treason bit that she'd forgotten the new obstacle in Morgana's dream. "What is it?"

"I honestly don't know," the younger woman confessed. "It has the body of a lion but the wings and head of an eagle. A really big, lion-sized eagle, so it was bigger than Arthur's dogs but smaller than the horses. Its front feet were talons, but the hind legs ended in a lion's claws."

Gwen's brow furrowed. "I've never heard of a creature like that."

"Neither have I," Morgana confessed, "but that's what I saw."

"Maybe you should ask the hooded man what it is," Gwen suggested.

"That's actually a good idea," Morgana said. "He's got to be there for _some_ reason."

Gwen's lips twitched. "He's probably one of your many admirers. So many people care for you, Morgana. Always remember that."

Morgana smiled ever so slightly. It wasn't the chuckle Gwen had been hoping for, but it was a lot better than the fear-filled expression that had previously covered her lady's face. Morgana was scared, and she had good reason to be. Gwen was scared too, and she was only involved by association. She couldn't imagine what her poor friend was going through. But confiding in someone, even if that someone was only a maid, and hearing a promise to help had done wonders for Morgana's anxiety. Her face was calming, the wrinkles of worry smoothing out.

As Gwen made her way to the laundry room, she thought about what had just happened. Of course she did—how could she not? Her dearest friend in the world might be developing magical powers, and she had promised to aid her even though that was treason and Uther was not particularly forgiving of treachery. Or anything at all, really, but especially not treachery. If Morgana was right and Gwen helped her and they got caught, they would both burn.

Despite the heat of the day, Gwen shivered.

"Ah, Guinevere."

For the second time that hour, Gwen jumped, nearly dropping the laundry basket and spilling its contents all over the floor. "My lord," she said, dropping into a curtsey as best she could. Inside, she was trying not to panic. Short of Uther himself, Prince Arthur Pendragon was the last person she wanted to see while thoughts of magic and treason and secrets still bounced around her head.

"I was hoping to find you."

"Oh?" It came out a squeak. There was no possible way he could know, Gwen reminded herself. Unless he'd been eavesdropping. Oh, heavens, what if he'd been eavesdropping? Or what if he'd noticed that Morgana's dreams had a way of coming true and wanted to question her about that? She didn't know if she could hold up to an interrogation, especially not so soon. Please don't be an interrogation. _Please_ don't be an interrogation….

Arthur smiled. "No need to look so worried," he assured her. "I merely wanted to thank you for conveying the mortaeus flower to Gaius."

"I…." So not an interrogation then. That was wonderful. "….You are very welcome, my lord, but you didn't need to thank me. Merlin is my friend. I was happy to do it."

The prince nodded. "Yes. Well. Nonetheless, I _am_ grateful to you. I've almost got him turned into a halfway competent manservant. It would be tiresome to train up a new one from scratch."

"It isn't Merlin's fault, Your Highness," Gwen protested. "Merlin grew up in a farming village, you see. He never had any training until he arrived in Camelot. He'd never even touched a sword until his first day in your employ. I've been teaching him, of course, but he's really doing quite well for someone with no experience. Sire."

"I suppose you might be right," the prince admitted. He leaned closer. "Just don't ever tell him I said that, you understand? He's already being unbearable about that blasted flower. Honestly, why did it have to be a flower?"

Gwen fought back a laugh. "I suppose because trees don't really grow in caves."

"Couldn't it have been a fungus or a mushroom or something?" Arthur grumbled. "Because Merlin just won't _shut up_ about flowers and feelings and all that ridiculousness."

"I think that that's his way of dealing with almost dying," Gwen replied, her laughter slipping away. She remembered how pale Merlin had been, the sweat running down his brow, that awful rash creeping across his body. "It must have been terrifying for him, and the only way he knows how to cope with what happened is through laughing at it."

"Laughing at me, more like," Arthur corrected, but there was no heat in his voice. His eyes were distant as he saw once again the servant lifting his hand in a toast, a few seconds of calm, then Merlin's entire body going limp and sprawling across the floor. The prince caught himself with a shudder. "Well. I suppose that there's no harm in letting him laugh, then. But I still wish it wasn't a flower." He nodded. "Again, thank you, Guinevere. I'll leave you to your duties now."

Gwen curtsied as the prince walked away, then continued along to the laundry room.

Without Arthur distracting her, she found her thoughts turning once again to Morgana's predicament. The maid offered up a brief prayer to all the gods she could think of that her friend and mistress was wrong, that her dreams really were just coincidences, that she didn't have magic, that they weren't both in terrible danger. But she couldn't help the dread curdling in her stomach because, well, she'd noticed how strangely prescient the dreams could be long ago. She hadn't thought about it—hadn't _let_ herself think about what it implied—but she wouldn't be surprised if Morgana's suspicions were right. Dismayed, yes, and frightened, but not surprised.

She dropped the dirty clothing off with a laundry maid. Since they didn't have any more clean clothes for her to convey back to Morgana's chambers, she carted an empty basket into Gaius's chambers.

The physician in question was fixing his infamous stare of disapproval on Merlin, who was trying to remain unrepentant but failing miserably. "What did he do?" Gwen asked Gaius.

"He was running about the castle wearing himself out just a few hours after he woke up," the physician grumbled.

"No I wasn't," Merlin retorted. "I was walking, not running. There's a huge difference."

Gaius glared. Merlin squirmed.

"What were you doing?" Gwen demanded. "I know that the prince gave you the day off."

"Making arrangements for my sheep-smuggling ring," Merlin replied.

"Sheep smuggling, Merlin?" Gwen sighed, rolling her eyes. Honestly, he had _such _a strange sense of humor sometimes. But then, he _had_ almost died. She should expect him to be even stranger than usual.

But still, sheep smuggling? Sometimes, she really wondered what on earth happened in that head of his.

Gaius cuffed his ward over that head of his.

"Ow," Merlin whined. Rubbing at the bump, he grumbled, "I thought that physicians were supposed to help invalids?"

"If you're well enough to smuggle sheep, you're well enough to handle a light tap on the head," Gaius retorted.

"Does that mean I'm well enough to get out of bed again?" Merlin asked hopefully.

Gaius fixed him with a long level stare before returning his attention to the amused Gwen. "How can I help you today, Gwen?"

"Morgana needs another sleeping draught," she explained. "Her nightmares have gotten worse again."

"They'll usually get better soon, though," Gaius reminded her.

"I know," Gwen agreed, "but the last draught you tried didn't work very well."

Gaius frowned but did not appear surprised. "Hmm…. I suppose there are one or two things left to try, but perhaps we should look at alternatives to draughts. Has she been exercising?"

"We usually go for at least one ride and several walks each day," Gwen answered. "She's a bit less active in the winter, but it's high summer now and she does tire out her body. It hasn't helped."

Once again, Gaius remained unsurprised. "Perhaps we should start monitoring what she's eating. There may be a pattern."

Gwen doubted that there would be, but she agreed to bring it up with her mistress anyways. It wasn't like monitoring Morgana's diet would hurt anything, and if there was a chance, however remote, that her nightmares were related to food, they should investigate it.

The gods knew it was certainly a more palatable explanation than sorcery.

Like her servant, Morgana was not at all convinced that diet had anything to do with her nightmares, and it took Gwen a long time to convince her that at least trying it out couldn't hurt. At worst, it would be a couple minutes of wasted time each day for a month or so. At best, they would discover some bizarre correlation with, say, roast beef.

"But you don't think it's food either, do you Gwen?"

She sighed. "No, I don't."

Morgana just nodded.

They started her dream/food journal that evening. Morgana dutifully recorded her breakfast, lunch, and supper before turning in, and she did it with a minimum of grumbling.

When Gwen returned the next morning, she found her mistress already awake. "Bad night?" she asked.

Morgana nodded. "I saw the creature again. Here. I've drawn it." She pushed a scrap of parchment towards Gwen. The paper was dominated by the black outline of a strange-looking creature, half-lion and half-bird. The beast reared on its hind legs, beak gaping, claws extended. "It's called a griffin, apparently."

"Griffin," Gwen murmured, leaning over to better examine the illustration. Morgana wasn't the best artist in the world, but she'd still captured the terror of the monster, the rage in its eyes. "Your dream man told you that?"

"That and more. Griffins are creatures of magic that can only be killed through magical means. If this is a true dream and there really is a griffin coming towards Camelot, then all we can do is capture it."

Gwen frowned. "Don't you think it's a bit premature to start plotting against it?"

"Better premature than too late!"

"You're right, of course." Gwen forced herself to think like everything Morgana's dream man had told her was true. "If this griffin is a creature of magic, can it be held with regular chains?"

"I don't know," Morgana confessed. "I didn't ask. I'll do that tonight."

The next morning, she announced that griffins could, in fact, be bound by ordinary chains, but that her hooded guide swore there was nothing for her to worry about. The griffin, he promised, would be 'taken care of.'

"And when I asked him what that meant," Morgana growled, pacing her room in frustration, "he just grinned at me and stopped talking!"

"But if his face is shrouded in darkness, how did you know he was grinning?"

"It was something in the eyes, I think," she grumbled.

But for the next week and a half, nothing happened. Life went on. Morgana's dream continued, not every night but several times each week. She dutifully recorded what she had eaten each day in the new dream journal, but, true to her predictions, it hadn't revealed any patterns thus far. Gaius told her not to be deterred and requested that she keep making entries until the end of the month. Morgana agreed more to humor him than from any real conviction.

She and Gwen danced around the topic of magic. They would never mention it directly, never use words like 'sorcery' and 'magic' and 'witch.' But they thought about it all the time. Gwen started having nightmares too, and like her mistress prayed that the things she saw at night never came to pass. The thought of Morgana burning at the stake….

No. It wouldn't happen. She wouldn't _let_ it.

Besides, she told herself, it was only dreaming. Even if Morgana's dreams were 'special,' nobody needed to know about them. As long as she kept quiet about the details of her nightmares, quiet enough that no one else could connect the dots, she would be safe.

Relieved by the thought, Gwen brought it up the next day as she helped Morgana dress. For a moment, she thought that she had done it, had finally banished the cloud of gloom and fear that followed Morgana around like a perverse duckling. Hope brightened Morgana's features.

"You really think so?"

"I know so," Gwen assured her. "You don't need to tell anyone what you see. You'll be safe then."

The hope in Morgana's eyes dimmed. "But what if it's more than just dreams?"

"Has something happened?"

"No," Morgana confessed, "but I fear something will."

Gwen chewed on her lip. Her hands, accustomed to fastening complicated dresses, continued their work without faltering. "I…. I suppose that you'll have to find a teacher."

Morgana shuddered. Whether that was from the thought of contacting a sorcerer or of Uther's reaction to her contacting a sorcerer, Gwen couldn't say. She'd bet on Uther, though. "Any teacher would be in terrible danger here in Camelot."

"What about Tintagel?"

"Do you really think that Uther will let me wander off? And even if I could," she added bitterly, "I doubt that Cador would let me live there."

Gwen grimaced. Morgana's cousin had never been overly fond of her.

"But," Morgana speculated, "some of them can do that whirlwind thing."

"You mean the vanishing?"

"Exactly. If my teacher could just pop in and out of Camelot…."

"That would be brilliant," Gwen said, tying the last knot. "There. Ready to face the day?"

Morgana actually smiled. "Actually, I think I am."

They spent the morning in a meeting with the head of the weaver's guild discussing the knights' need for new cloaks and the severe lack of uniforms for guards. After the plague, Uther had started increasing the guard, and now the captain was out of uniforms for his new recruits. "Focus on the guards first," Morgana told the guildswoman, "and the knights second. They can afford to buy their own cloaks, and we still have a supply of spares."

"Of course, my lady."

After a quick stop to purchase lunch from a vendor, the two friends returned to the castle. "We ought to see what Uther's doing," Morgana decided. He often had tasks for her to carry out, and the guild meeting was the only thing on her schedule.

But Uther was holding court, listening to a scrawny, shaking peasant describe the plight that had befallen his village.

"It doesn't take livestock, sire," he said as Morgana and Gwen slipped in. "It prefers human flesh."

Uther stiffened. "And what manner of beast is it?" he demanded. "A rogue wolf?"

"No, sire," the man replied. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before, and I don't know the name. I fear it's a creature of magic."

"Fetch Gaius," Uther ordered one of the pages. The page saluted before scurrying off. "The court physician is very knowledgeable about creatures of magic. He will know what it is and how it may be destroyed. Until he arrives, tell me about the attacks in more detail."

The court listened with steadily increasing horror as the peasant reported the creature's depredations: children missing, human corpses discovered half-eaten and mutilated from terrible claws. But Gwen and Morgana had another reason to fear.

Soon Gaius arrived, and the peasant began his description. "It has the hindquarters of an enormous cat with a tassel on its tail. The front part looks like an enormous eagle. It's absolutely terrifying."

Morgana went rigid.

"Well, physician?" Uther said, turning to Gaius. "Do you know of any creature that fits this description?"

"I believe I do, sire," Gaius replied. Gwen's heart sank, for she knew what he would say before he said it. The maid slipped her hand around Morgana's. Morgana grasped her tight.

"It is called a griffin."

* * *

So if the difference in this story is 'Merlin is proactive,' why have Gwen and Morgana started their own AU story arc? Simple: Morgana can see the future, which has changed due to Merlin being proactive. Since it's changed from canon!future, she sees different things, which means that she'll do different things, including telling Gwen. Methinks that their friendship deserves more screen time than it got on the show, so they'll get the occasional chapter as they try to deal with this magical dreams thing. Not next chapter, though. Next chapter, Merlin makes an idiot of himself and the griffin gets 'taken care of.' See you on August 13!

Cador: In the myths, Cador of Cornwall was one of Arthur's cousins. He was an important war leader under the High King's command. Here, he's Morgana's cousin; his dad and Gorlois were brothers.

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein the Lady Morgana, Not Being a Complete Dolt, Grows Suspicious of Her Oddly Prophetic Dreams and Decides to Investigate"_

_-_Antares


	6. The Would-be Knight

Chapter VI: The Would-be Knight

"Niiiice beastie," Merlin crooned, backing away slowly. "Be a nice bird-cat thing and don't eat me. You wouldn't like me anyways. Skin and bones, see?"

The creature, which appeared to be some sort of eagle-lion hybrid with attitude problems, snapped its beak in Merlin's direction. It pawed at the ground, then charged.

Merlin waited until the last second before flinging himself out of the way. "Bad beastie!" he yelled. "Bad, horrible—" His rebuke ended in a yelp as he rolled away from the creature's sharp talons.

Time slowed. Merlin climbed to his feet, darted away from the frozen creature. Time sped up again.

He could have run. He was hardly a professional monster-killer—that was what Arthur and the knights were for (when they weren't out hunting innocent sorcerers, that is). But _someone_ had sent that afanc, and Merlin was willing to bet that two obviously supernatural creatures attacking the same city twice in a month and a half were connected. He wouldn't be surprised if Kilgharrah's mysterious sorceress was behind this one, too. The dragon hadn't found her yet, so it was very likely that she was indeed the culprit.

If this thing, whatever it was, was after him, then it was his responsibility to destroy it.

Fortunately, Merlin had been practicing.

"_Forbaerne!_" the warlock cried, thrusting out his hand. Flames shot from his fingertips, singeing the monster's feathers, setting its fur alight. Merlin smiled. Kilgharrah had told him that when in doubt, fire was always a good choice of weapon. The warlock had half-believed that this tip was born from a dragon's prejudice, but apparently not.

But the sorcerous flames didn't last long. The creature reared, claws flashing.

Someone yanked him out of the way.

Merlin's blood ran cold. He went rigid, sweat beading at his brows, a lump the size of an apple congealing in his throat. He forgot all about the creature, even though its talons had cut through his kerchief, even though it was screaming its fury at a deafening volume.

Someone had seen him use magic. Please oh please oh _please_ be Gaius….

The young sorcerer finally dared to turn his head. A moan of despair escaped his throat.

The person who had grabbed him was nothing like Gaius. Muscled and tanned, with curly dark hair and stubble on the bottom of his handsome face, he had the look of a fighter. One of the guards, perhaps, or even worse—a knight. Merlin could have wept.

White-hot pain lanced through his arm, followed by a gush of sticky wetness. Merlin cried out, jerked away. He and the other man fell. The warlock scrambled away, away, not from the creature but from a fellow human being. In mere moments, he was halfway across the small clearing, his back against a tree.

The beast lunged towards the stranger.

"_Scildan!_"

Merlin cast the spell by instinct. A golden shield materialized between the monster and the man. The beast bounced off with a shriek of fury.

"Handy trick, that," the soldier muttered.

Blood gushed down Merlin's mangled arm. His heart was still racing from the knowledge that oh, gods and goddesses, no, this person had seen him do magic, he'd seen the magic, he _knew_. But he had more immediate problems than the stranger's presence. That rapid heartbeat the maybe-knight inspired meant that he would lose consciousness soon from blood loss, and then the lion-thing would probably eat them both. Already black spots danced on the edge of his vision.

"_Forbaerne!_"

The creature danced away.

The stranger drew a sword. Merlin backed away, clutching at his bleeding arm. He'd researched how to defeat creatures of magic, talking with Gaius and Kilgharrah and reading through his magic book and sneaking other books from the library. The sight of the stranger's blade jogged a memory from his panicking mind.

"_Bregdan anweald gafeluec."_

No result. The stranger stepped in front of the wounded sorcerer, crouching and ready to fight. He didn't know that his sword might not affect the creature, that it might bounce off the magical hide like a ball from the ground.

"_Bregdan… anweald gafeluec!"_

The last thing Merlin saw before the blackness took him was the stranger's sword bursting into flame.

* * *

Merlin did not wake up in the dungeons.

He'd expected to, assuming he'd wake up at all. Between the beast and the soldier, his continued survival hadn't seemed particularly likely. But here he was, awake and alive and rather confused.

He woke up in the forest with his neckerchief bound around his wounded arm and a bag propped under his head as a pillow. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the stranger was sitting against a tree watching him because he knew Merlin had magic, he knew, he knew, he knew—

Merlin began to hyperventilate. A soldier, a complete stranger who had seen him use magic. Not just magic, powerful magic, magic meant to kill. Never mind that it was a monster trying to kill him, that the beast would have slain them both if Merlin hadn't intervened. He had used magic and he'd been seen and he was going to die and—oh. Oh, he was going to pass out again. Stupid blood loss.

The stranger held up his hands. He looked a bit alarmed by Merlin's rapid breathing and uncontrollable trembling. "I'm not going to hurt you," he announced in the soft, soothing tone of someone trying to reassure a skittish horse. "My name's Lancelot. What's yours?"

"Nobody!" Merlin blurted. "I am absolutely nobody! I'm a nonexistent figment of your imagination, and this entire battle was just a hallucination. You saw _absolutely nothing._"

Lancelot looked very alarmed. "I… see."

"No you didn't."

"Right." Lancelot's alarm was not fading. If anything, it was becoming more pronounced. "Are you all right?"

"I can't be all right because I don't exist," Merlin babbled, "but if I did exist, I'd tell you that I'd just had my arm sliced open from that whatever-it-was and you know about my magic and you're going to try to kill me and everyone I love and no, no, I'm not all right." He started to scoot away. "I think I'm going to be sick."

To his surprise, Lancelot also backed away. His arms remained in the air, fingers splayed to show that his hands were empty of weapons. "If you existed, I'd point out that you just saved my life when it would have been easier to let me die. I saw you. I could betray you… but you still let me live." He smiled, warm and grateful.

"But you actually didn't do that because you _don't _exist, so I suppose that the monster just vanished." He paused, frowned. "You might want to take care of that, by the way. If someone finds that corpse, they'll see that it was killed by magic. Or," he corrected himself, "they'll think it was killed by magic, but it clearly wasn't because you're the only sorcerer around here and you're just a figment of my overactive, battle-addled imagination."

Merlin dared to breathe again. He no longer felt the need to vomit. "You're quite right," he noted. Still feeling exceptionally uncomfortable (did Lancelot have to _stare_ at him like that?), he mumbled, "_Forbaerne._"

The creature's corpse erupted once again in fire. This time, without any distractions, Merlin kept his spell active until nothing was left of the beast but blackened bones. Merlin stretched out his hand. For a moment he let it hang there, then he pulled it into a fist.

The monster's bones disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash on the breeze.

Lancelot gave a low whistle. Merlin jumped. Acutely conscious of the gold not yet faded from his eyes, he met the soldier's gaze.

There was a long and very uncomfortable silence.

Finally Lancelot shifted, cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "Well. I suppose that, since you are clearly a hallucination created in the depths of my mind and don't really exist, you should probably vanish back into the ether now."

Merlin nodded cautiously.

"After all," Lancelot continued, "I'm going to assume that my hallucination was caused from the stress of battle. Now that the battle is over and the beast… er… mysteriously disintegrated for no apparent reason… my hallucination can just… go… do whatever it is hallucinations do."

"So you agree that I don't exist?" Merlin asked.

"You saved my life," Lancelot explained, "and at great risk to yourself."

"So I _don't _exist."

"Of course not," the soldier agreed.

And Merlin believed him.

The warlock's face broke into a wide, relieved grin. "Oh, thank all the gods and goddesses," he breathed. Tension drained from his shoulders, leaving him limp. "I was afraid that—that you'd think I was real and then you'd go tell Uther and—well, that would be bad. But you know that I'm not real, so I'll just be going now." He climbed to his feet and started leaving.

"If you did exist," Lancelot noted, "I'd thank you and wish you well."

Merlin froze again. "If I existed," he replied, "I'd thank you for that and for saving my nonexistent life. I would greatly appreciate everything."

"As would I." Lancelot cracked a grin. "It's almost too bad that you don't exist."

"Don't say that," Merlin cautioned. "If I existed, you'd have to kill me."

Lancelot's smile faded. "Right," he muttered. Then, "I'm leaving now."

"Good. So am I."

Merlin wanted to sprint back to Gaius like a child after a nightmare, but he forced himself to walk instead, gathering the mushrooms his mentor had requested along the way. He was acutely aware of everything around him: the birdsong, insects buzzing, the wind occasionally whispering through the pine needles, the dull agony in his arm. He'd have to bind that up the second he got back. Something stepped on a twig. Merlin jumped, spun around, but it was only a squirrel. Laughing nervously at himself, the warlock continued on.

Okay. Okay. He had a problem here. A complete stranger had seen him use magic. That was bad. That was really very bad. But, he told himself, there was good news too. Well, okay, it wasn't exactly _good _news as much as a not-_completely_-unmitigated disaster, but there was still a silver lining on this black cloud.

Lancelot hadn't shown any interest in killing him. According to the laws of Camelot, he would have been well within his rights; any citizen could kill a sorcerer and escape prosecution. It was the only legal form of vigilantism in the kingdom. If Lancelot had murdered him before he regained consciousness, no one would have protested.

Assuming that Lancelot told people in the first place. It would have been so, so easy, Merlin realized, suddenly feeling very cold, to just kill him and be done with it. The soldier wouldn't have had to report to the king, wouldn't have had to explain a dead manservant to the prince. He could have made it look like the monster had killed a man before dying under mysterious circumstances.

But Lancelot _hadn't _done that. Instead, he'd bandaged Merlin's injured arm, made him as comfortable as possible, and asked if he was all right. Best of all, he'd asked who Merlin was.

He didn't know. He didn't recognize the sorcerer as Arthur's oddball manservant.

So, theoretically, if Merlin kept his head down for the next few weeks, Lancelot might forget the sorcerer's face. He certainly wouldn't forget that he'd met a sorcerer—that would be too much to hope for—but maybe, just maybe, Merlin's angular features and unfortunate ears would fade from his mind. And, the warlock decided, he would start growing out some facial hair. A short beard would help disguise the sharpness of his chin, the distinctive shape of his face. His scalp hair as well, get it to cover his ears…. He could get a tan too. He'd probably look very different. Unrecognizable, perhaps, especially if Lancelot was bad with faces.

Which meant that there was no need to mention this little incident to Gaius. Gaius would tell his mother and then his mother would be furious and he really didn't want to deal with that. His mother could be very frightening when she was angry. Gaius was the same, though he'd probably express disapproval more than actual rage. He was very good at expressing disapproval. The physician's ward didn't want to deal with _that_ either.

Merlin fully intended to go through with that plan. After binding up his arm with fresh linens, he went through his spell book looking for incantations to make his fair skin tan instead of burn, to grow out his hair more quickly. He was just preparing to cast the hair spell when Gaius called his name.

"Coming!" the warlock yelled.

By the time he was done cleaning that accursed leech tank, he was far too exhausted to do anything but collapse into bed. Then he woke up late and didn't have time to cast his spells because he had to sprint to the kitchens, grab Arthur's breakfast, and watch the prat eat the delicious, wonderful-smelling meal while his stomach whined in protest.

_Then_ Arthur dragged him out to the training fields and started training for jousting, which, as far as Merlin could tell, was merely an excuse to charge at his poor helpless manservant with a lance. Merlin hated holding the jousting ring. Couldn't they have made a pole or something to hold it so he didn't have to? But, he reflected glumly, even if there was a pole like that, Arthur would probably still insist on torturing his servant. He was just sadistic like that.

Take now, for instance. The prat had gone and knocked Merlin off his feet. The warlock fell onto his backside. He tried to catch himself, but his left arm was still wounded and his right arm got tangled up in the ring. His head slammed against the ground.

Merlin's ears rang. His brain felt like it was going to slosh right out of his nose. He groaned theatrically.

"Get up, Merlin," Arthur ordered.

Merlin groaned again and flopped onto his belly. "Do I have to?" he whined. "You've hit the ring about fifty times this morning. Could you maybe find something else to do? Preferably something that doesn't involve me standing still while you come at me with a dangerous pointy object."

"Well, if you insist."

Arthur sounded way too cheerful. Merlin peered up, eyes narrow with suspicion. "You can help me practice swordplay," the prince proclaimed.

The warlock dropped his head.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders. "Get up, Merlin," Arthur repeated. "I know how much you _adore_ sparring."

"…I hate you."

Arthur, curse him, laughed. He slapped the now-upright warlock on his back, grinning unrepentantly. "You _did_ say you wanted to do something else. Preferably something that doesn't involve you standing still while I come at you with a dangerous pointy object."

"Yes," the manservant grumbled, "me flailing about while you come at me with another kind of dangerous pointy object is exactly what I had in mind."

"That's the spirit, Merlin!" Still wearing that accursed grin, he pointed towards the storage unit knights used for practice weapons. "Now go get us some practice swords."

Grumbling, Merlin obeyed.

He knew his way around the weapons shed (Arthur insisted it wasn't a shed, but Merlin knew a shed when he saw one) by now. It would be sad if he didn't, considering how often Arthur was on the practice field. Thanks to this familiarity, he found two wooden practice swords in mere moments. The warlock pushed open the door, fixed his eyes on his prince.

Arthur was engaged in a lively conversation with Lancelot.

Merlin's blood ran cold. The practice swords tumbled from his numb arms.

He was _not _going out there.

There was another door out of the weapons shed, one that didn't lead through the training fields. Merlin half-stumbled, half-ran through that door. Before he knew it, he was in the medical ward.

Gaius knew who had entered even without looking up from his book. "Merlin? Aren't you supposed to be on the practice field?"

The sorcerer swallowed, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his mask was at full strength. He really, really did not want Gaius to know about Lancelot. "Technically, yes," he announced, voice light with false cheer. "Except I got tired of Arthur charging at me with pointy objects. Why can't he go beat up a knight or something?"

The physician chuckled. "I believe it's because he wants you to be capable of defending yourself."

"I'm very capable of defending myself," Merlin sniffed. His wounded arm throbbed. _Liar._

"But Arthur doesn't know that. This is his way of showing you that he cares."

Merlin snorted. "No, I think it's his way of showing that he's a prat."

Gaius rolled his eyes. "Well, if you insist on avoiding those duties, you can grind herbs for me."

Merlin's arm twanged again. Good thing he was right-handed. "What do you need ground?"

"Start with the yarrow. We'll see how long that takes."

"Okay." The warlock made his way over to Gaius's herb bundles. After plucking a bundle of dried yarrow, he ambled over to the mortar and pestle. "So, are you going to tell me yet?"

"Merlin…."

"Because she's tried to kill me, and I don't think she's going to stop. If Kilgharrah had found her already, it'd be different, but he hasn't. There's no telling when she'll attack again."

"I have already told you everything you need to know about her," the physician protested.

"No you didn't. You didn't tell me her name or where to find her or anything at all, really."

"I don't want you to go seeking her out, Merlin," Gaius explained for what felt like the five hundredth time. "She is very dangerous."

"So we'll let her dictate our encounters?"

"Tell me honestly, Merlin. If I gave you her name, would you or would you not search for her?"

Merlin didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"You have incredible raw power," Gaius told him, "but very few spells, little experience, and a dangerous dearth of sense."

"Hey!"

"The sorceress who sent the afanc was raised by the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. She grew up using magic openly under the tutelage of some of the most powerful women in the world. She has had decades to perfect her skill. Decades, Merlin. You can't compete with that."

"Look," the warlock sighed, "if she weren't intent on killing me or even if Kilgharrah had found her, I'd—"

The door opened. Merlin fell silent.

Arthur and Lancelot strode into the room. The latter was holding tight to a wounded arm; the former's cheek had been cut and was still drizzling blood. Naturally, both rough-and-tough save-the-world guys were grinning from ear to ear.

Merlin did _not_ squeak. What the hell was Lancelot doing here? He'd never even seen the man before yesterday, but now the soldier was practically stalking him. Maybe he _was_ stalking him. Maybe he'd figured out who Merlin was and spilled the beans to Arthur and they were here to arrest him and Gaius and then they'd send soldiers after his poor mother and then they'd all die.

Or maybe he was just spectacularly unlucky and a wee bit paranoid.

Whatever the case may be, Merlin had no intention of letting Lancelot spot him. He slid out of his chair and under the table. Not the best hiding place, he knew, but it wasn't like he had any other options. Besides, he'd get to his room as soon as he could.

Except that Gaius, who had no idea why Lancelot's presence was bad news, said, "Merlin, get out from under there and fetch me some bandages."

Arthur and Lancelot turned, stared. The prince made some arch comment, but Merlin didn't hear it. He was frozen, his gaze riveted on Lancelot's face.

The soldier's eyes bulged. His jaw sagged ever so slightly. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"Merlin!" Arthur barked.

The warlock jumped, banging his head against the table. "Um… yes?"

"Bandages. Now."

"Okay." Face burning, eyes still not turning from Lancelot's still-stunned face, the warlock crawled out from under the table, made his way over to Gaius's collection of wrappings. If his hands shook a little as he picked them up, nobody noticed.

"Gaius," Arthur said, "this is Lancelot. He's here to try to become a knight. Lancelot, this is Gaius, our court physician, and Merlin, my lazy sod of a manservant."

Lancelot jerked. "Your manservant?" he repeated faintly.

"I know," Arthur groaned, "and yes, he is every bit as stupid as he looks."

"Which is still considerably smarter than you," Merlin shot back.

Lancelot choked.

"Enough, Merlin," Gaius scolded. "I still don't have those bandages."

"Right. Sorry." He hastened over to his guardian, handed over the linens. "Here."

Gaius accepted them with a nod of gratitude. "We need more water, Merlin. These wounds need to be cleaned."

Merlin gave a mock salute and made his escape.

The warlock took a long while to fetch water, so lost was he in his thoughts. Lancelot… it didn't look like the man would betray him, and Merlin knew full well that his terror was irrational. But then, since when had fear been subject to reason? His mother had taught him fear as soon as he could comprehend what terror was. It was written in his bones, in his blood: don't let them know, don't let anybody know. _Keep the magic secret_. He had lived by that dictate literally his entire life, and like a claustrophobe who knew, logically, that small spaces couldn't hurt him, he couldn't shake his irrational, visceral fear.

Of course, the warlock admitted to himself as he trudged through the halls of Camelot, his fear was a bit more logical than claustrophobia. He'd seen sorcerers die, heard people cursing his kind for years. He had grown up listening to stories about friends betraying friends when they learned that their companion had magic. Not to mention that one time in Carmarthen….

But, he reminded himself, heart fluttering with hope, Will had accepted him, Will and Gaius and Hunith. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, Lancelot would be like Will. It would be… nice, he decided, to have someone like Will around.

With that thought buoying him, the warlock picked up his pace.

Arthur grumbled something about lazy servants and how long does it take to get water, anyways? but Merlin paid no attention to him except to note that he was not accusing his dogsbody of sorcery. He glanced at Lancelot. The knight-in-training shook his head almost imperceptibly. Merlin smiled, inclined his own head in thanks.

"So," he began, "you're here to become a knight?"

"Yes," Lancelot replied. "I've wanted to be a knight my entire life and trained for it since I could hold a sword. Now I've reached my majority and can finally, finally fulfill that dream."

"Assuming my father lets you," Arthur grumbled.

"What?"

"It's not a slight on your skills," the prince hastily explained. "You're quite good with the sword. Not every man can wound me. You've clearly worked hard at your training." He gave Merlin a significant look, which the servant ignored. "The problem is with the First Code of Camelot, which says that only noblemen may become knights."

"Oh," said Lancelot softly.

"I think," Arthur continued, "it's because most commoners don't have the time or means to practice swordplay and he doesn't want them practicing constantly instead of tilling the fields. But since you already have the skills and don't have any land to cultivate, I'm certain he'll make an exception."

"Want to bet?" Merlin muttered.

"I think I will, Merlin," Arthur decided. "After all, it's not like he's my father whom I've known my entire life."

Merlin hadn't expected Arthur to take him up on the bet, but now that he had, he certainly wasn't going to let the opportunity go to waste. "If I win, you'll stop trying to kill me for a fortnight."

"What?" Lancelot yelped.

"Merlin, Merlin," Arthur chuckled, "if I were trying to kill you, you'd be dead."

"Then why do you keep charging at me with deadly pointy things?"

"Because I'm refining my skills as a knight, that's why." He smirked. "When I win, you're to stop complaining about your chores for a fortnight."

"I don't think he could survive that," Gaius chuckled.

"Deal," Merlin said, sticking out his hand. His prince clasped it. They shook, each certain that he had the better end of the bargain.

Lancelot raised his eyebrows at them. "I'm not sure if I appreciate my life's work getting turned into gambling fodder."

Merlin flushed. "Oh. Didn't think of that. Sorry."

Lancelot smiled. "It's fine. I just hope you understand that I hope you lose."

"He will," Arthur assured him. "Almost done, Gaius?"

"No. I _am_ done."

"Excellent." The prince rose to his feet. "Come on then, Lancelot, Merlin. This is his lunch hour. We can ask for an exception now. It won't take more than ten minutes."

And he was right. Ten minutes later, Merlin had won their bet, and Lancelot's dreams were no more.

* * *

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein a New Character is Introduced and Learns that Merlin Does, In Fact, Exist, Despite His Repeated Claims to the Contrary_"

And so the griffin is taken care of and a new character arrives. Hi, Lance! *waves*

There was a reference to one of the more well-known Arthurian myths here. Can anybody spot it?

Since I don't have a lot of notes on the chapter itself, I'd like to explain a bit about the cover art. You'll see later why Merlin's crystal is gold instead of blue, so don't ask. The Pendragon crest, normally gold on red, is green on black to represent new life appearing in a place of death. The title ties into that theme as well. A quickening is the first motion of a baby in the womb, the first stirrings of something as yet unborn.

Next update: August 28. Wherein we get Lancelot's POV and his decision. See you then!

-Antares


	7. Lancelot's Choice

Chapter VII: Lancelot's Choice

Lancelot didn't quite know what he was supposed to think.

On the one hand, sorcery was illegal. It was, in fact, the most illegal thing in the entire kingdom. He had, like most other people his age, grown up on stories of sorcerers' evils: blighted crops, hailstones bigger than a baby's head, plague and pestilence and sour milk and rampant infertility. He had been taught that magic corrupted, that its practitioners had sold their very souls in return for power.

On the other hand, any idiot could see that Merlin wasn't quite like the sorcerers in the tales.

When Lancelot had seen the scrawny lad about to be mauled by the whatever-that-was, he had forgotten the magic and acted instinctively, dragging the boy out of the way. Then the youth had turned, had looked upon the face of his savior….

He had been more afraid of Lancelot than he was of the monster. He had been absolutely terrified, but he'd still automatically conjured that golden shield and saved Lancelot's life. Then, instead of letting the monster kill him—which he could have. It would have been so much easier, so much more convenient, if he'd let the man who knew his secret die—he'd done that fire thing to Lancelot's sword. The blade had cut through the monster like a dinner knife through warm butter.

And now it turned out that the boy—Merlin, his name was—was Prince Arthur's manservant and _friend._ The affection between them was obvious even after just a few minutes, though he doubted that the prince would ever admit to it. It would have been heartwarming if their closeness didn't mean Merlin was in constant danger of fiery death.

It was also insane. Merlin was, as mentioned, in constant danger of fiery death due to his proximity to the prince of Camelot. Arthur was Uther's son. He seemed a fair bit nicer than the king (or perhaps Lancelot was a bit prejudiced against Uther for shattering his long-held dreams), but Lancelot had no doubt that Arthur shared his father's prejudice against magic.

So what on earth was Merlin thinking?

There was only one thing to do. He had to talk to the lad, ask him what was going on and why a sorcerer had decided to get a job in King Uther's household. So, partly to distract himself from the pain of rejection and partly because he was genuinely curious, Lancelot started plotting a way to get Merlin alone. He'd probably have to use some form of trickery, as the sorcerer was quite skittish and he didn't particularly want Arthur suspecting anything.

The prince in question sighed heavily. "I did think he would at least let you demonstrate your skills," he grumbled. "If he had—well." Arthur frowned. "It isn't a knighthood, but would you be interested in a job as a guard? They're recruiting and could always use a man with your talent."

"I—I'll think about it, Your Highness. I need time…."

"I can show you to an inn, if you'd like," Merlin volunteered.

"Ah, no. I've actually already got a room. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Okay." Merlin nodded. "But I can still show you around the castle, maybe introduce you to a guard or two."

"No, Merlin," Arthur interjected, "you can't. This might come as a surprise to you, but you work for _me._ You do what I say, when I say it. You do _not_ go traipsing away from the training field to play with flowers."

"That's right. I traipse away from the training field to help my dearly beloved great-uncle create the life-saving medicines that help keep your kingdom running."

Arthur pulled up short. "Great-uncle?"

"Yeah," Merlin replied, looking a bit surprised. "My grandfather was Gaius's brother."

"Maternal or paternal?"

"Maternal." Something flickered in those blue eyes, but Lancelot had no idea what it could be. It was gone before he could process it. "Sort of. Mother's adopted. Seriously, though, hadn't you figured that out?"

"I _had_ wondered why he put up with you, yes."

"Speaking of putting up with, I don't have to put up with your bullying for an entire week." Merlin smirked, then, remembering, turned to Lancelot with a rather embarrassed expression. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," the other man sighed.

"Still, I probably shouldn't keep bringing that up."

"No, no, don't worry about it."

"No, no, I should." Merlin turned his head so that Arthur couldn't see his face. He winked, eyes flashing gold. "In fact, I feel so guilty about it that I absolutely _insist _on inviting you to eat with me and Gaius."

Arthur's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you trying to get out of your chores again?"

Merlin was the very picture of innocence. "Would I do such a thing?"

Arthur glared.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "It's supper, Arthur. I'll be done with your slave labor by then."

"Are you absolutely certain, Merlin? Because you're quite a bit behind after sneaking out on me."

Ah, that was right. Arthur had been grumbling about how his useless lazy manservant had made a break for it rather than continue sparring. Now that Lancelot knew the useless lazy manservant's identity, he wondered if his presence was the real reason for Merlin's flight. Considering that the sorcerer had tried to hide under a table when Lancelot entered the physician's chambers, he wouldn't be surprised.

"I'd be glad to eat with you, Merlin. What time do you and Gaius usually eat?"

They continued in that vein for the next couple of minutes, Merlin and Lancelot arranging dinner and Arthur joking that it was a date, to which Merlin replied that Arthur was the one who had gotten him a flower. That, of course, led into a retelling of the Horrible Spiders Incident, which led to Lancelot wondering once again why on earth a sorcerer was so devoted to a Pendragon. It really didn't make any sense.

Merlin and Arthur left him to his own devices for the rest of the afternoon. With nothing better to do, Lancelot returned to the training field, where he met and sparred with a pleasant blond fellow named Leon. Like Arthur, Leon thought it a shame that someone with Lancelot's skills couldn't become a knight. Also like Arthur, he suggested getting a job in the guard. The knight had no doubt that the wandering soldier could easily become Captain of the Palace Guard one day, and that was a position just as prestigious and respected as knighthood. Lancelot plastered a smile onto his face and thanked him. He knew that the knight was just trying to help. It wasn't Leon's fault that the attempt wasn't working.

To distract himself, he thought about his immanent meeting with Merlin. And Gaius, he supposed, but he was mostly interested in the nephew rather than the uncle. It was about time to eat, so he made his way back to the medical wing, thinking that he could perhaps help Gaius with cooking.

It turned out that Gaius had finished cooking, but he let Lancelot set their tiny table. The failed knight had just set down the last napkin when Merlin burst into the room. "Sorry I'm late, Gaius, Arthur was being annoying again." He froze. "Oh. Hi, Lancelot."

The boisterous façade failed, and for a moment the would-be knight caught a glimpse of a hunted, weary man, a man who knew fear and darkness and lies. Then, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, he was his chipper self again, though a bit less exuberant than he had been before. "I suppose you want an explanation, then?"

Lancelot nodded.

Gaius turned, his famous eyebrow shooting upwards. "An explanation about what?"

Merlin flushed, fiddled with his neckerchief. "He might or might not have seen me use… certain illegal means to fight a thingamajig that was trying to kill me."

"Merlin!" The physician was, unsurprisingly, horrified. "Tell me you aren't saying what I think you're saying!"

"I haven't told anyone about his magic," Lancelot said, "and I don't intend to. I would, however, like to ask a few questions."

The sorcerer bowed his head. "Fair enough. Ask away, then."

"Merlin," Gaius hissed, "_what_ is going on?"

The sorcerer looked so jittery and unhappy that Lancelot opted to do him a favor and explain. "He saved my life."

Merlin blushed.

"I was just coming into the city when I saw some sort of monster attacking him," the failed knight continued. "He had set it on fire, but the flames went out when it charged. I pulled him out of the way. He returned the favor by creating some kind of… I don't know what. A shield, I suppose, a shield made of light that stopped the creature from murdering me. Then, even though he was losing consciousness from blood loss, he still managed to do something to my sword that helped it cut through the monster's skin."

"And then," Merlin sighed, "we agreed to pretend that I didn't exist and I started plotting to grow a beard."

"What?" Lancelot asked blankly.

"As a disguise," Merlin explained. "Except you saw me before I could grow one, so…." He gave a helpless little shrug.

Gaius's expression cycled from shock to horror to disapproval and back again. His eyebrow shot up in a most frightening way. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"No," Merlin mumbled, staring sulkily at his feet.

"In his defense," Lancelot interjected, "the thing would have eaten him if he hadn't fought."

"I believe it's the griffin people have been sighting lately," Gaius said, "and you could have run."

Merlin looked up, his face developing a distinctly mulish expression. "Not really. I think the sorceress sent it after me."

"Pardon?" Lancelot asked.

"A few weeks ago, someone sent a monster—an afanc—to poison the water supply. Arthur and I managed to kill it, but then two weeks later a woman showed up and tricked me into drinking poison. I think we told you about that. Well," he corrected himself, "Arthur told you what he thinks happened. He doesn't realize that the poison was meant for me. But it was. Gaius, she's proven she has control over magical creatures and wants me dead, and she's not afraid to kill others to get what she wants. Using Bayard to poison me nearly restarted a war! If there was any chance that she sent that griffin thing, I had to stop it before it hurt anyone. I _had_ to."

Lancelot stared at the foolish, brave, noble young man before him and barely kept his mouth from falling open. No, this was _definitely_ not one of the monstrous magic users in the tales. He thanked the gods that he'd decided to let Merlin go free.

"Don't you think that assuming the griffin was after you is a bit arrogant?" Gaius demanded.

Merlin flushed. "Maybe, maybe not. It _did _manage to find me in the woods, and it _was_ charging at me. Considering that there's a sorceress with a vendetta against me and that this beast fixated on yours truly rather than anyone else in Camelot, I can't help but wonder if there's more to this than coincidence."

Gaius grimaced but was forced to acknowledge that his ward had a point. "Very well. But couldn't you at least have looked around before using magic?"

"Sorry, I was trying to keep an eye on the angry cat-thing that appeared to desire to eat me."

"It was a fairly isolated stretch of woodland," Lancelot chimed in.

"So what were you doing there?" Merlin wondered.

"I didn't want to enter the city smelling like a pigpen," the embarrassed soldier confessed. "I was following the stream out of sight of the road."

Merlin cracked a smile. "So can we agree that Lancelot being there and me not seeing him was a complete coincidence and that I'd had no reason to look around?" Eyes wide and innocent and hopeful, he looked up at his uncle.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Lancelot assured the physician and his ward. "That would be poor repayment for saving my life."

Gaius groaned, sank into his chair. Every year showed in the wrinkles of his face. "You'll be the death of me, Merlin."

The sorcerer flinched. "I hope not."

Silence fell. In a (failed) attempt to break the ice, Lancelot commented, "The stew is probably getting cold by now."

"Right." Merlin's head bobbed. "Wouldn't want that." He frowned. "Well, actually, I could probably heat it right up again."

"Don't," Gaius ordered.

They served themselves. The next few minutes were quiet save for the sounds of chewing and occasional requests to pass the salt. Finally, when their bowls were empty and the last of their bread devoured, Lancelot tentatively got back to the point of the dinner. "So. You're a sorcerer in Camelot."

"Actually, I'm technically a warlock," Merlin corrected.

"…All right."

"You have no idea what that is."

"Not really."

Merlin adopted the tone of a lecturer. "A lot of people use terms like wizard, sorcerer, and witch interchangeably, but they're actually very different things. 'Sorcerer' has become catchall for magic-users of all shapes and sizes, but it technically refers to a person who was not born with the ability to access magic who learns it. A warlock is a male witch, a person born with the ability to access magic. The ability usually manifests in the teenage years, but there are a few cases—me included—where the magic shows up at another age."

"Wait," Lancelot interjected, "people can be born with magic?"

Merlin nodded. "It's like—it's like being born with a really nice singing voice, only having a nice voice can get you killed. Witches and warlocks are born with the nice voice. Sorcerers and sorceresses have to learn how to make themselves sound that good. And, um, I guess that people who can't become sorcerers are all mutes. The comparison kind of breaks down then."

"I see." Lancelot's gaze went distant. "I never knew that."

"Not a lot of people do, now," Merlin sighed. "And like I said, people will use the term 'sorcerer' for anyone with magic. That doesn't help."

"So you were born with magic," the failed knight repeated.

"Yup."

"You don't have a choice about using it?"

"I've tried to stop." Merlin winced. "I ended up using it in my sleep. I'd wake up to find myself floating by the ceiling or that I'd turned Mother's cookware into stone or that there was an apple tree sprouting from my bed."

Better and better. Something of Lancelot's alarm must have shown in his face, because Merlin quickly continued, "But that doesn't happen if I use magic while I'm awake. Which I do. You don't have to worry about me blowing up the castle in my sleep."

"Blow up the castle?" the soldier repeated.

"I won't," Merlin assured him.

"But you could if you wanted to."

The sorcerer—warlock—flinched. "Probably," he confessed.

He didn't look like the sort of person who could destroy a castle. He had big blue eyes and stuck-out ears and delicate, elfin features. He was slender, and his oversized shirt made him look like a child trying on his father's clothes.

Appearances could be very deceiving.

"I… see."

Merlin fidgeted. The warlock was clearly rather uncomfortable.

"But you're in Camelot."

"Yeah," he mumbled, "I am. It's a bit of a long story." Merlin settled back in his chair. His cadence changed. "I'm originally from a small village in Essetir. In a small town like the one where I grew up, people notice things about you. They notice that their fields are always free of vermin even when neighboring villages complain of swarms. They notice a single mother who never needs firewood. They notice a boy who never gets sick. They notice these things, and they whisper about them.

"My powers were growing too quickly for me to handle. Mother and I were terrified that I'd lose control and be discovered. Then we would both burn." He shuddered. "And one day, I was caught in the act of sorcery. If the discoverer had been anyone other than Will, my only friend, I wouldn't be talking to you right now.

"Will's always been a bit of a rebel and troublemaker. He was angry that I hadn't told him, but he quickly decided that a magical best friend was the best thing ever. He encouraged me, asked me to demonstrate for him and do pranks with him. Like I said, a troublemaker.

"I kept Will's knowledge from my mother for two months. Then she found out just what I was doing with my magic and Will's encouragement. I've never seen her so angry. It was scarier than that griffin we fought. But then she calmed down and gave it some thought, and eventually she decided to send me to Camelot."

"But why?" Lancelot demanded. "I mean—this is _Camelot_. People with magic—" He cut himself off, but the unsaid words nonetheless echoed around the room. _People with magic die here._

"Part of it was that I couldn't control my abilities very well," Merlin sighed. "It's an open secret that Gaius used to be a sorcerer—a true sorcerer, not a warlock like me—the only one my mother knew. Well, aside from my father, but he's not an option. She had tried finding druids and other sorcerers while I was younger, but she couldn't. Gaius was the only person she could think of who could teach me control."

Lancelot nodded slowly. He supposed that made sense. If it was a choice between inevitable discovery due to loss of control or taking a risk to gain control and safety, he could understand why Merlin's mother had sent her son here.

"That's the reason she gave me," Merlin continued, "but I think there's another that she didn't want to admit to. I think she wanted to remind me of the price of indiscretion." His eyes darkened. "And I did remember."

Lancelot almost asked what had reminded him, but stopped himself at the last moment. Instead, he asked, "So if you were sent here to learn magic, how did you end up _serving Uther's son_?"

"There's kind of a funny story about that…."

Merlin spun a tale like nothing Lancelot had ever heard before, a story of dragons and destinies and secrets and lies. He told of an enemy and a guardian both hidden in the shadows. He spoke about Kilgharrah's prophecy (which Merlin admitted he wasn't certain he believed) and of his hope that maybe, just maybe, he could show Arthur that magic wasn't evil. He was still working out how to do that and hadn't really come up with any good ideas yet, but where there's a will there's a way, and he had will enough for ten men. Also, he added, if Lancelot had any suggestions, he was welcome to contribute.

By the time the warlock finished his tale, Lancelot's head was spinning. This was… it was quite a lot of information. It was an insane, fantastical story that made no sense and all the sense in the world. It was bizarre and wonderful and only just beginning.

"Lancelot? Are you all right?"

The failed knight jerked out of his reverie. "Er, I'm fine, Merlin. It's just a lot to take in."

"Oh." Merlin fidgeted. "I guess it is. I mean, obviously it is, but I went through it gradually and had time to adjust. You've just had really crazy day, though."

Lancelot barked a laugh. "You can say that again."

Merlin's lips twitched up. "You've just had a really crazy day, though."

The failed knight shook his head. "I think—I—thank you."

Merlin was honestly startled. "What for?"

Lancelot nearly rolled his eyes. "For saving Camelot. For saving my life. For telling me."

"Oh." The warlock blushed. "You're welcome, I suppose." He was clearly not used to praise.

The soldier laughed again, but this was softer, less harsh. "But I think I have to leave now. It's dark out, see?" He gestured toward the window. Sure enough, the sky outside had gone black. "I need to get back, and I think I need to sleep before I can actually comprehend everything you've told me. Lots of sleep."

Merlin grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. I guess that it kind of is a lot."

"Something like that, yes."

"So I'll maybe see you tomorrow?" Merlin frowned. "Unless you were planning on leaving Camelot. I'm pretty sure Arthur will knight you once he's king, but Uther is…. Well. He's Uther."

Lancelot goggled at him. "Merlin, do you really think I'm going to leave after everything you've just told me?"

"Well, considering that there's an evil sorceress trying to destroy this city and Uther pretty much just spat on your life's dream and you'll technically be committing treason for harboring a sorcerer by staying here and not turning me in, I would think that you'd want to get as far away as possible."

Oh. Lancelot hadn't thought of it like that. He had just heard tell of a city in danger, guarded only by a half-trained youth in constant danger of death, an old physician, and a potentially crazy dragon (a dragon. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that), that would need all the help it could get. He explained this to Merlin and Gaius in short, choppy sentences, unable to articulate his thoughts. He didn't really expect them to understand his babbling.

Except they did, Merlin especially. The warlock's face broke out into a wide grin that lit up the entire room. "You're really staying?"

Lancelot smiled back. "Of course. Camelot is far too interesting to leave."

* * *

A bit late in the day, but still on time. At least in my time zone. Not sure about yours.

A bit of wonderful news: The fantastic cropka has translated my Merlin fanfiction "The Birdbrain and the Bees" into Polish! It's now "Ptasi móżdżek i pszczoły," on mirriel - forum, for those of you who read Polish. Thank you, cropka! You rock.

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein Lancelot Has Much to Digest, Both Metaphorically and Physically_"

Next chapter: September 11. Time passes and a new villain appears.


	8. Of Beetles and Brains

Chapter VIII: Of Beetles and Brains

Lancelot ended up taking that job as a guard.

It wasn't the knighthood of which he'd dreamed for so long. It wasn't even a particularly prestigious position within the guard, though Leon, with whom he'd struck up a friendship, and Arthur assured him that a man with his skills and dedication would move quickly through the ranks. They predicted that he'd be off the night shift (widely regarded as the most miserable position, reserved for men just starting out unless they bribed the Head of the Guard for something better, which Lancelot had refused to do) within the month.

The would-be knight's days quickly settled into a routine. He would rise at dinnertime and head up to the palace, where he would eat with Merlin and Gaius. They would chat about their days, stories from their pasts, Merlin's magic, anything that came to mind. Then, after helping Merlin wash dishes, he would head to the Head of the Guard's office, where he would receive his dispatch for the night. They usually had him patrol the castle walls, but he occasionally served in the dungeons. Merlin would usually appear and keep him company for a few minutes after he'd set Arthur to bed but before retiring himself. Lancelot thought that the warlock was a bit lonely for someone his own age with whom he could share his true nature. It was a pity because Merlin was such a _likeable_ young man. They had befriended each other easily, despite the fact that a would-be knight and a warlock really ought to have been mortal enemies.

He put his foot down about meeting Kilgharrah, though. He liked Merlin, he really did, but he wasn't certain if he could handle a dragon.

It was a decent existence, but it had its share of problems. For one thing, his coworkers had absolutely appalling standards. He'd caught them sleeping and playing at dice on the job! Once, he'd even come across a fellow guardsman making out with a kitchen maid in the middle of his shift. It was almost enough to drive him to tears.

He tried complaining to Sullivan, the Head of the Guard, but the lazy man just told him to shut up or resign. Lancelot had replied by going directly to Arthur, who brought it to his father, who threatened to demote Sullivan to the night shift unless he did something about his men. That did lead to increased discipline, but it also led to the other guards resenting Lancelot even more. They hadn't liked him from the start, grumbling that he was putting on airs by aiming for knighthood, not to mention that his diligence made them look bad. This, though, constituted a betrayal.

His second major problem was his longing for Lady Morgana's maidservant, Guinevere, who was (at least to Lancelot's besotted mind) a lady in her own right. He felt a strong attraction to her and she to him, but it was difficult to spend time together when they had such different schedules. Lady Morgana, thrilled that her friend might have found love (or, at the very least, something that could develop into love), started giving Gwen time off in the evening, but she couldn't change the fact that one half of the couple was nocturnal and the other diurnal. Not that Morgana wasn't trying—according to Guinevere, she was taking a personal interest in Lancelot's advancement, which of course made his fellow guards even more disagreeable—but for the moment, their duties kept them apart. He imagined that their duties would keep them apart for a while yet. Sullivan's grudge against him made promotion from the night shift unlikely for the forseeable future.

But routine was routine, and Lancelot found himself settling into Camelot life without much difficulty. It was a good life, Merlin and Gwen's companionship offsetting his disappointment with his job. His belly was full, his dwelling warm. It was not the life he had dreamed of, but it was better than wandering the dusty roads with no guarantee that he'd get another meal or avoid bandits for the night.

And then Morgana fell ill.

* * *

"I have in my possession a remedy to cure all ills. Perhaps I can help Lady Morgana where your court physician could not."

Merlin told himself that he was being paranoid, that it _could_ simply be coincidence that this robed, scarred man with his oily smile and silk-smooth words had appeared mere hours after Morgana's affliction. Coincidences happened, right? Besides, how would this man have hurt Morgana?

Actually, that was a silly question. The guards had improved somewhat under Uther's watchful eye, but they were still pretty easy to sneak past. He knew. He'd certainly snuck past them often enough.

Why, though, would anyone want to hurt Morgana? She probably had a few enemies somewhere—most nobles did—but none of them were stupid enough to try anything while she lived in Uther's court. After all, the king was not known for his restraint or squeamishness.

But, Merlin reminded himself, just because he couldn't think of any reasons for Muirden to go after Morgana didn't mean that there weren't any. Also, it looked as though the man was trying to depose Gaius, and he didn't particularly want that. With that in mind, he snuck away from Arthur and secreted himself in Morgana's chambers behind the changing screen.

Merlin listened impatiently as Gaius, Uther, and Edwin chatted about medical things and possible diagnoses. The new physician seemed legitimate so far, but Uther was in the room. Merlin had to wait and see if he tried to get Morgana alone.

He did.

Muirden requested permission to carry out a private examination—not, he hastened to add, because Gaius was incompetent, but because his eyes were younger and he might be able to see something the older man had missed. Gaius didn't seem to buy it—Merlin could practically hear him raise his eyebrow—but Uther agreed.

Merlin crouched, his heart hammering in his ears.

"_Bebiede_—"

Merlin charged.

Edwin Muirden clearly had not anticipated being tackled to the ground by a scruffy manservant. Merlin knocked the older man down; they skidded against the floor at the side of Morgana's bed. The woman in question remained unconscious despite the ruckus around her.

"That had better be a healing spell," Merlin snapped.

Muirden goggled at him, jaw agape.

"Well?" Merlin hissed.

"Who the hell are you?"

"That's not important. Was that or was that not a healing spell?"

"…Do you truly think me fool enough to murder the king's ward when he thinks that I and I alone am with her?" He smiled bitterly, absently raised a hand to his scarred face. "My parents perished in his flames. I too know fire's touch, and I have no desire to feel it again."

Edwin's lack of resistance and his words inclined Merlin toward trusting him. The warlock pushed himself from the other man's prone form, stood. He offered Muirden a hand. The man's eyebrows climbed in a manner reminiscent of the other physician at court. "I'm Merlin."

The other sorcerer stared at the outstretched hand for an eternal moment. Then he extended his own hand, clasped fingers, let Merlin pull him to his feet. "Edwin Muirden."

"Good to meet you."

Edwin, his eyes still on Merlin's face, returned to his position by Morgana's side. "I am going to use the healing magic of the Elanthia beetle," he explained. "They are creatures of magic that act as carriers of spells. Their small size allows them to enter the body and convey healing spells to internal organs and the like without the dangers associated with surgery."

Now that Morgana wasn't in danger, Merlin's natural curiosity reasserted itself. "Can I watch?"

"A lifetime of hiding and persecution has made me… uncomfortable… using my gift when others can see."

"Right." Merlin turned his back, stared at the wall.

"_Bebiede þe arisan áblinnan_," Edwin intoned. There was a noise like the rustling of wings and another sound, a box snapping shut. "It's done."

Merlin turned back around, looked down at the sleeping Morgana. She was still pale, still unconscious, but Edwin's spell hadn't killed her. Merlin smiled. "Thank you."

Edwin turned that unblinking gaze onto Merlin. "You are very accepting of magic for a man of Camelot."

"I'm actually from Essetir," Merlin corrected.

"Cenred's lands? He's not much better."

"…My father was a sorcerer. My mother saved him and they fell in love, but Uther's men were hunting him. He had to leave before either of them knew Mother was pregnant."

It was the first time he'd ever told that story to anyone. He had no doubt that Gaius knew—the man had, after all, been present at his birth—but they'd never actually talked about Merlin's paternity, and he hadn't broached the subject with Lancelot either. But the man before him had entrusted him with his family secrets. It felt right to return the favor.

Sure enough, the scarred face softened. "I'm sorry."

"As am I." Merlin looked back at Morgana. "So how do the… Elanthia beetles?" Edwin nodded. "So how do they work?"

"As I said, they act as vessels for spells. They're used for internal medicine. They can stop internal bleeding, destroy blockages, even purge infections. Useful little beasts."

"They sound like it," Merlin replied. Oh, he hoped that Edwin's appearance so soon after Morgana's illness really _was_ a coincidence. Gaius was very knowledgeable, but he refused to teach Merlin any spells that didn't appear in his spell book. Kilgharrah knew a surprising amount of spells for someone who didn't use human magic (Merlin supposed that was a side effect of a millennium of life), but they couldn't meet as often as he would like. Someone not much older than himself who was actively using magic….

Lancelot was wonderful, but he didn't—couldn't—understand what it was like to have magic. He tried very hard, but some things must be experienced, and magic was one of them. Merlin had dreamt his entire life about finding someone with magic, a friend with whom he could explore it, grow into his gifts. Perhaps—he hardly dared let himself hope—perhaps if it were a coincidence, Edwin Muirden could be that friend.

But, he reminded himself with a sinking heart, he had to make sure.

With that goal in mind, he made his way toward the physician's rooms. "Gaius? Are you in here?"

The physician and the king turned the full force of their attentions to him. Merlin blanched, told himself not to panic. He would just have to wait a little bit before questioning his mentor. So, after babbling out a half-coherent excuse for his interruption that probably made him sound like an utter moron, Merlin fled.

The sight of Uther had planted a nasty suspicion in his head. Edwin had said that his parents died in Uther's fires. He'd strongly implied that his facial scars came from those same flames. So it was probably a bit fishy that he was anywhere near Camelot in the first place.

But if he was only here to kill Uther, shouldn't Merlin just leave him to it? After all, the tyrant of Camelot was a genocidal monster. He had betrayed Kilgharrah's entire species, consigning the dragon race to extinction. He hunted druids like mere animals. Any citizen could strike down a sorcerer—or really anyone unfortunate enough to be accused of sorcery—without repercussion. He sought magic users out, burning them for healing dying children or repairing pottery. He was an evil man, and the children of magic—not to mention the world in general—would be better off without him.

So he should turn a blind eye. Gods knew that Uther would kill him if he had half an opportunity. This was a war, not one Merlin had volunteered for but one which had swallowed him anyways, and he had to fight—to kill, even—to survive. If Edwin was indeed seeking revenge on the man who slew his parents, who was Merlin to stop him? If the man, the murderer hadn't been Uther, he would have. Since it was Uther, he should probably help.

Except he couldn't bring himself to walk up to Edwin and say, "I know you're here to kill the king and I want to help."

It was irrational and ridiculous. He didn't like Uther at all, feared and hated him and everything he stood for. He should be glad that the butcher now had to reap what he had sown. He should go back to Edwin and tell him that if he was going to kill the king, Merlin would turn a blind eye.

Wait. Had he just decided to stand aside and let one man kill another?

Merlin shivered slightly. Camelot had shown him a ruthless streak he had never known, never even suspected, existed. When he'd dropped that chandelier on Mary Collins, he hadn't felt anything until that night, when the realization that he had crushed a grieving mother to death overwhelmed him and he trembled in his cot for hours, tears falling from his eyes. But even as he'd wept, he had known deep in his bones that he would do it again if he had to.

He had always known he had a strong protective instinct. It had driven his poor mother half-mad whenever he brought home another wounded animal or defended her against those who snickered about her lack of husband. He just hadn't known how deep it ran. This new depth frightened him, made him wish he could just go back to Ealdor and work the fields.

But the past is the past. He was here in Camelot, he had things to do, and like it or not, he was in the center of a possible attempt on Uther Pendragon's life.

_A possible attempt,_ the warlock reminded himself, _just a possible one._ _If_ Edwin Muirden was here to kill Uther, then he would do nothing. He still didn't know, and it wasn't like he could just go up and ask the man if he planned on committing regicide.

So what he needed to do was figure out if the Elanthia beetles were really vessels of healing. Even if Muirden had come here with good intentions, he may or may not have put Morgana's life in danger, and while Merlin was willing to accept Uther's death (the coldness made him shudder), he would _not_ tolerate collateral damage.

Ruthless he might be, but he had his limits.

Finally, after long hours of polishing and running errands and whatever else Arthur could dredge up from the depths of his imagination (Morgana's illness had made him afraid, which had made him angry, which meant that he was taking his frustration out on his poor helpless manservant), Merlin made his way back to the physician's chambers. He hadn't gotten to eat supper or even visit Lancelot. His body ached like that of an old man. He wanted more than anything to just sleep, but he had to talk with Gaius and deliver Kilgharrah's latest sheep before collapsing into bed.

Except that Gaius was already asleep, his soft snores filling the room.

Merlin groaned. Typical. Just typical. Should he wake the man up? No, the warlock decided. He was meeting Kilgharrah tonight anyways. He'd just ask the dragon about Elanthia beetles.

The warlock moved through the castle and its tunnels like a sleepwalker. Oh, why oh why did Arthur have to work him so hard? Didn't he realize that it was _physically impossible_ for a single man to complete all those chores without magic unless he didn't need to sleep? Probably not, the great prat.

He told all these things and more to the sheep he was escorting to Kilgharrah. The sheep was a very good listener, which meant that Merlin was feeling a little bit better by the time he reached the dragon. Still, he was irate enough that his scaly friend noticed. "Did you have a bad day, young warlock?"

"Yes," Merlin sighed. He flicked a hand at the sheep, which fell unconscious without further preamble. "A lady who's probably the most decent noble in the entire kingdom was sick. Gaius couldn't cure her, but a man showed up who claimed to have a remedy to cure all ills."

Kilgharrah frowned, his brow furrowing. "There is only one remedy to cure all ills."

"There is? I thought Edwin—that's his name, Edwin—was exaggerating. What is it?"

"Death."

Merlin pulled up short. "Oh."

"Did this kindly noblewoman survive?"

"Yes. She's conscious again. I was there, though, when he healed her. I heard him start a spell, so I confronted him, asked what he was doing. He said that he was using the healing magic of the Elanthia beetle, but…. He didn't let me watch. He had me turn away. Kilgharrah, is that what Elanthia beetles do?"

The look on the dragon's face was answer enough, but he still spoke. "No. Elanthia beetles are creatures of dark magic. Sorcerers have used them to kill their enemies discreetly. The creatures enter through the ears or nose and make their way to the brain. Then they eat it."

Merlin blanched. "They eat brains?"

"Yes."

"Oh," the warlock squeaked. Oh, that was so gross. Disgust overwhelmed him for a few moments before his brain started working again. Morgana had been sick in the brain. Gaius and Edwin had agreed on that, though they hadn't agreed on what, exactly, had been wrong. _"Oh._"

Yeah, 'coincidence' was looking less likely by the second.

Disappointment panged in his chest. Merlin flinched. He'd hoped so much that Edwin could be his friend, but if the man was willing to risk Morgana's life….

"I thought," he confessed, "that there was something fishy about him just showing up like that, but…. I think he's the one who hurt her in the first place. I had wondered, but now I think I know." He sighed heavily.

"You must watch this Edwin carefully, young warlock," Kilgharrah cautioned.

"I had planned on it," Merlin told him. "I had hoped that maybe it really was a coincidence, that the Elanthia beetles really were the healing magic he said they were. But…." A low groan escaped his throat.

Anyone who would send beetles to eat a woman's brain should probably not be trusted. The last of his dreams of friendship went up in smoke.

It was with a heavy heart that Merlin returned to his hard pallet, curled up, and fell asleep. He didn't feel any better when he awoke, because that meant that he had to confront Edwin.

But, the manservant reminded himself, he had manservant-y things to do. He wasn't delaying the inevitable 'discussion.' He was just… um… taking care of other duties beforehand so he could devote the entirety of his attention to their encounter. Yes, that was exactly what he was doing.

He threw himself into his tasks with such devotion that Arthur started to worry that his servant was becoming competent.

But though Merlin had intended to wait until evening before speaking with Edwin, it was not to be. Gwen and Morgana, now fully healed, came marching towards them. The lady looked angry, the maid worried. The warlock's heart sank. Why did he have the feeling that this had something to do with Muirden?

Perhaps his childhood gift of prophecy was returning, because his premonition held true. "Uther has fired Gaius," Morgana announced.

"What?" Merlin squawked.

"Yes," Morgana growled, "he's fired a man who served him loyally for decades over just one mistake. I admit that it was a serious mistake, but that's still no reason to throw—"

But Merlin couldn't hear her anymore. He had already run out of earshot.

Gaius was sitting in his chambers, staring blankly at his possessions as though wondering where to start, what to do. He started as Merlin flung open the door. "Merlin?"

"What's happening?" the warlock demanded.

"I have to leave," Gaius replied, his voice strangely blank. "I have been replaced, it seems."

"Gaius, you can't. Edwin made Morgana sick with his Elanthia beetles. I don't know how, exactly, only that he did and—"

"Merlin," the physician interrupted, "did you not hear me? I have been fired. There is nothing I can do." He placed a hand on the table, stared blankly at the room he'd called his own for longer than his ward had been alive. "I cannot stay where there's no longer a use for me."

"So you're just going to give up?" his ward hissed. "You're just going to give in without a fight?"

"Uther has made up his mind."

Merlin could have torn out his hair in frustration. "I won't let this happen," he vowed, and stomped out the door.

Morgana and Gwen were taking care of Arthur. If they couldn't persuade him to intervene (and they probably couldn't. Arthur was something of a Daddy's boy), Merlin would have to find another way. That meant persuading either Uther (not likely) or Edwin (again, not likely) to retain Gaius or not become Court Physician, respectively.

He would start with Edwin. Perhaps the man could be blackmailed into leaving. Yes. That's what he'd do.

Except that Edwin proved very difficult to find. Merlin wandered the castle for about two or three hours, but he might as well have been chasing the wind. Was he avoiding him?

No. It turned out that Edwin had been with Uther the entire time, going over arrangements for his career as Court Physician, whispering poison in the king's ear. While Merlin had no desire to see Muirden triumph, not at Gaius's expense, he definitely didn't want to attract Uther's attention. The man had a nasty habit of throwing anyone who displeased him into the dungeons or the stocks. With that in mind, Merlin decided to tail the king and his new physician until he could get the latter alone.

But that, too, was not to be. Arthur, angry and guilty after Morgana's chewing-out, found him after only a few minutes and literally dragged him by the ear into the training fields, where he was forced to hold the jousting ring for the remnant of the afternoon.

By the time he returned to his chambers, Gaius was already gone.

Anger surged. Scowling, his visage thunderous, Merlin stomped to Edwin's guest chambers, pounded on the door as hard as he could.

The physician's face broke into a cold smile when he saw his visitor. "Merlin. Come in."

Merlin came in. Before the door was even closed, he growled, "Why are you here? And don't tell me you were just passing through. I know you sent the Elanthia beetles to attack Morgana."

The smile widened. "Tell me, Merlin. Why is it that Gaius, who half the kingdom knows used to practice sorcery, survived the Purge? Why was he and he alone spared?"

"He gave up sorcery," Merlin snapped. "So don't—"

"He did worse than that!" Muirden cried. "He did _nothing! _He just stood there watching, still and silent and cowardly, as those around him burned! He saved his own sorry hide by betraying his kin!"

"You're lying!" Merlin yelled even as doubt took root in his heart. He always had wondered….

"Oh?" Muirden sneered. "Am I, Merlin?"

"You are." He hoped. He really hoped. "And you have to leave now. I know what you did to Morgana. I will _not_ let you hurt anyone else!"

"Not even the man who drove away your father?"

The warlock froze. He couldn't even remember how to breathe.

Kill Uther, let him die. Let the tyrant reap what he has sown, let the suffering end. Out with the old and in with the new. Let Uther's reign end; let Arthur's reign begin.

And one day, when all Merlin's secrets were revealed and his innermost self laid bare, he would have to explain to Arthur that he had chosen to let his father, whom he loved, die.

Merlin groaned.

Muirden took that as an admission that Merlin would indeed stand aside. "That's what I thought."

"Leave Camelot or I'll tell both Pendragons you're a sorcerer. I want you gone by sunset tomorrow."

The scarred face twisted into a sneer. "No, Merlin. I think not. _Forbærne yfel_!"

The stone around Merlin's feet burst into flames. They surrounded him, licking at his boots, threatening to devour him.

Counterspell, counterspell, he didn't know the counterspell! He'd have to make one up. Yes, here's something that might work. The words rose to his tongue. Merlin opened his mouth.

Muirden's door burst open. "Edwin!" Arthur shouted. "My father—"

That was when he noticed the fiery death attempting to consume his manservant.

Merlin stifled a profanity. Great. Now what was he supposed to do?

Muirden and Arthur faced each other, still as stone. The prince's eyes had gone very, very wide. Apparently, the realization that his father had accidentally hired a sorcerer was too much for his poor overwrought brain.

Merlin sighed. At least one good thing had come out of Arthur's intervention. Muirden had lost his concentration when the prince burst in. His flames were small now, small enough for a long-legged youth to jump over.

The warlock crouched, leapt. His lanky form collided once again with Edwin's body, knocked the older sorcerer once again to the floor. This time, though, Merlin had no intention of letting him get up.

Edwin swore. He grabbed at his attacker, magic forgotten in his anger.

Merlin was utterly useless with a sword. He admitted that freely. But that didn't mean he lacked experience in fighting. Far from it. As the only bastard in Ealdor, he had been the local bullies' favorite target. He'd had to learn to defend himself with only a stick or, more often, his bare hands. So while he couldn't hold a candle to a half-trained guardsman in a swordfight, he knew exactly what to do in situations like these.

The warlock's knee jerked up, colliding with Muirden's groin with enough force to make the man shriek girlishly. Taking advantage of the other man's pain, Merlin grabbed the physician's head. He slammed it against the floor.

Muirden went still.

"Merlin!" Arthur jerked his servant to his feet. "What the hell?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"Bully for you. But what the hell is going on?"

"Muirden's parents were killed during the Purge, so he's here to avenge their deaths," Merlin blurted. "I think he's trying to kill your father."

That snapped Arthur out of his shock. The prince's jaw hardened. "Father has Morgana's illness. With Gaius gone, I thought Muirden—but he can't. Won't." Blue eyes went wide. "Gaius has been training you. Do you know how to cure this?"

Merlin blanched. "I…."

It would be so, so easy and so, so satisfying just to let Uther die.

"Answer me, Merlin. _Please_."

It was the please that did him in, because Arthur was begging and Arthur _never_ begged. But his eyes were wide and desperate and terrified and Merlin might be frighteningly ruthless at times, but that cold-bloodedness was nothing to his compassion.

Was he going to regret this later? Yep. Would he curse himself at night? Undoubtedly. But on that far-off future day when he left the lies behind, he would not tell Arthur that he'd just let his father die. For his own sake, for their friendship's sake, for magic's sake, for what would the king do if he found that the only magic user he had ever trusted had collaborated in Uther's death? The resultant loathing would make things a lot more difficult, that was for sure.

"I can try."

"He's in his chambers. Grab whatever herbs you think will help, then go to him immediately. I'll get some guards and take care of Muirden."

"Right."

Merlin did not get herbs. He knew quite well that he didn't need them. All he needed was the counterspell, an incantation he had only heard once.

The warlock stared at the unconscious king who had caused him and his kind so much pain. If he did die…. If he did die, he would die because of incompetence and not for revenge, and Merlin could look Arthur in the eye come morning.

The sorcerer swallowed hard and laid a trembling hand across Uther's ear. "_Bebeode þe arisan ealdu. Áblinnen_."

Gold flashed behind his eyes. Magic surged through him like the blood in his veins, flowed through his hand into the king's skull. The power collided with a dark foreign presence, something that did not belong. The Elanthia beetle.

Merlin pulled his hand away.

* * *

So there was a bit of character-building with Merlin (or perhaps exploration would be better) and something more important: he made his choice. By helping Uther, he pretty much dedicated himself to creating a future where Arthur would voluntarily free magic. You all see how that works, right? He's doing something bad (at least to him. Arthur might disagree) for the sake of the greater good, so now he's more invested in fulfilling the greater good so that the bad thing he did can be justified.

I messed with the episode's timeline a bit and also with Morgana's reaction. In canon, she wasn't too happy about Gaius failing to diagnose her. Here, she has reasons for distrusting Muirden.

You'll notice that Merlin never mentioned Morgana's name to Kilgharrah, just that she was the nicest noble in court. That's why he was being so cooperative (for him, at least).

Next update: September 25. Merlin plays court physician, Arthur learns that thinking too much makes him grumpy, and a hunt goes wrong.

Alternate chapter title: "_Wherein a Creepy Scarred Dude Whose Entire Being Radiates Villainy is Promoted to an Important Court Position and is Allowed to Drug the King Instead of Being Immediately Thrown Into the Dungeons_"


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